


Nothing I could do would ever make you leave

by PeterParkers7EvilExes (antimone_ii), ru17



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bestiality, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Gang Rape, Gunplay, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Kidnapping, M/M, Mindbreak, Non-Graphic Violence, Rumlow generally being The Worst, Sexual Slavery, Starvation, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, before the bad things happen, fluff in the beginning, more mentions of dead moms than a shounen anime, pistol whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-06-25 01:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19735513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antimone_ii/pseuds/PeterParkers7EvilExes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ru17/pseuds/ru17
Summary: Sixteen years ago, the Winter Soldier escaped from HYDRA for the first time in almost sixty years. They eventually found him, but not before he fell in love with and impregnated a young Mary Parker. He's just escaped from HYDRA for the second time, and he wants only one thing: to see the love of his life and the baby he never got to meet. But Rumlow isn't far behind him, and he has other ideas.Or: The one where Bucky is Peter's dad and HYDRA takes them both prisoner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **HEY GUYS READ THOSE TAGS BEFORE YOU JUMP INTO THIS ONE!** This is one big garbagey HYDRA Trash Party fic and it's not for the faint of heart. Use your discretion before continuing, and otherwise, enjoy!!!
> 
> A collab fic between myself (Ru) and the incredible Sev ([peterparkers7evilexes](https://peterparkers7evilexes.tumblr.com/)).

Escaping from HYDRA the second time was hard.

But not nearly as hard as finding out Mary Parker was dead.

It felt wrong, on a deep, molecular level, like someone had told him the sky would never be blue again, or that the sun would now set in the east. It felt like something intrinsic to his own being had been ripped away, and Bucky was no stranger to feeling like that.

And still, he didn’t cry, just swallowed the painful lump in his throat and asked, “What happened?”

The man standing in Mary’s doorway regards him with sympathy. Bucky’s sure he must look a wreck, having only escaped from the chaotic battle of his latest mission hours ago, and immediately headed to the old brickstone Mary lived in - _used_ to live in - where they fell in love.

“Some kind of car accident,” the man says, apologetically. “Miss Parker didn’t make it, but her son did.”

_Son._

He never got to see the baby. Mary had only told him she was pregnant days before HYDRA found him again. He wasn’t there for any of it, not to raise his son, not to get him through his mother’s death. But he could be there for him now.

“Her son,” he says, pleadingly, “What’s his name?”

The sympathetic look on the man’s face only seems to deepen at the tortured sound of Bucky’s voice.

“His name is Peter Parker.”

…

He didn’t have much to go on. Just a name, an approximate date of birth, and the assumption that he’d be staying somewhere in Queens. It’s the middle of the night when he finally finds a match - and knows, without a doubt, that this is Mary Parker’s son. He has her big, dark eyes, her waves of brown curls in his hair, her petite stature. He looks nothing like Bucky at all, but that doesn’t bother him one bit.

He waits until the morning to knock, takes that extra time to clean himself up so he doesn’t look like the newly-escaped prisoner of war he is. He wonders, distantly, what Mary told Peter about him, if she ever told him anything. He never got to say goodbye. And Mary never got to find out the truth about him, about his past. But he’s grateful for that. Mary probably thought he ran out on her as quickly as he had come, but at least she never got involved in this.

Doubt flares up in him. Maybe he shouldn’t be doing this - maybe he should leave well-enough alone. Peter may not have parents, but he has an aunt and an uncle, and a modest apartment in a good, safe neighborhood. He’s probably better off without him. Bucky would just be putting him at risk, waltzing into his life like this.

But then he sees the boy walk past the window, his messy, unbrushed curls flying every which way, the way Mary’s always did first thing in the morning, and the kid grins and says something to someone out of Bucky’s field of vision, and he climbs the stairs to the front door and knocks before he can stop himself.

It’s like time slows down, when Peter opens the door, when their eyes meet for the first time. His son. Fifteen years old, already almost a man, and yet the paternal surge that shoots through Bucky’s whole body at the sight of him is as powerful as if Peter were still a newborn. _This is my son,_ his mind says, the warmest thought he’s had in almost a hundred years. _My flesh and blood._

“Hello, Peter,” he says, too awkwardly. He clears his throat, realizes dimly that his eyes are damp. “I know you don’t know who I am, but - “His hands fist at his sides, his legs going numb. “I’m your father.”

…

Peter is a little shy at first, quiet and wide-eyed as Bucky sits awkwardly at the Parkers’ kitchen table, stiffly introducing himself to Peter’s aunt and uncle as best as he can without delving into the whole ‘century-old ex-brainwashed assassin’ bit. He says something vague about being unexpectedly pulled back into service and being underground (all technically true), and thankfully the Parkers don’t question him too hard on that.

“You fidget too,” Peter says suddenly. His uncle cuts off in the middle of what he was saying and they all watch as Peter leans over the table and takes Bucky’s hand in his. “With your knuckles.” Peter taps at each of Bucky’s knuckles, indicating where he’s been twisting and popping his joints, a nervous reflex he hadn’t noticed in himself. “I do that too,” Peter says in awe, flexing his hands and demonstrating sheepishly as he mimics exactly what Bucky’s been doing.

“Mary _hated_ that,” Bucky says, and Peter nods, a little smile on his face.

“She made me wear a rubber band - ”

“ - It doesn’t work though,” Bucky finishes, and Peter laughs in surprise, his dark eyes crinkling in joy. He looks up at Bucky and gazes at him through thick, dark eyelashes, like he’s mapping out every line in his face. It’s a little daunting, being stared at like that, but it’s the first time the kid’s ever seen his face, his _father’s_ face, so Bucky sits still and lets him look him over.

“You could never…” the boy starts, shyly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Never even…call? Or write?”

Bucky swallows the lump of guilt that’s made its home in his throat. “I wanted to,” he says, although that’s sort of a lie. He _would_ have wanted to, but he hasn’t been _himself_ since the day HYDRA stole him away again. “But I work for a very…covert part of the military. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone about my deployment, not even family. And Mary…I loved her, Pete, but we only knew each other for six weeks before I got shipped off again. If she had been my wife, maybe I could have told her, but I didn’t have time to even pop that question to her before they f - before they sent me back.”

Peter gazes at him solemnly, his shoulders slumping. “She was always worried something bad happened to you. She said that you were the nicest person she ever met, and that you never would have just left without saying anything. She always hoped you’d come back someday.”

“Believe me, Pete, leaving you and your mother was the last thing in the world I wanted to do.”

The way Peter looks up at him, then, makes Bucky feel like something in his face must betray just how much he means that statement. His son looks at him with such a heartbroken, soulful look, the kind of face Mary used to make when Bucky would jolt awake from his nightmares in the middle of the night.

“Honestly, they - they pretty much had to drag me back overseas. Mary had only just told me she was pregnant with you. And like I said, we had only been seeing each other for a few weeks, but she was the light of my life, Pete. I didn’t - I didn’t have a home when I came back from overseas, and not a dollar to my name to find somewhere to live. Mary took me in, treated my wounds and nursed me back to health, but I loved her the moment I saw her.”

“Mom was like that,” Peter says, smiling warmly. “Always helping people. She loved working at the hospital. She said the best part of being a nurse was that no matter how bad someone was injured, there was always something she could do to make it better. But uh, she never took anybody in, like she did with you. She said you were a special case.”

Bucky honestly doesn’t know if it’s grief or joy that has his eyes welling up again. “Did she?”

“Yeah.” Peter smiles again. “She said you were in really bad shape, but still helped her get her car out of the ditch and didn’t expect even a thank you in return. She thought you were really selfless, and tough, and funny.” Peter’s cheeks go a little pink, flushed with embarrassment. “And uh, handsome.”

Bucky barks a quick laugh, the humor chasing those tendrils of grief away. “I think your mother managed to hit every ditch and pothole she ever drove by in all the time I knew her.”

“She never changed then, because I had to learn how to change a tire when I was like, four.”

Peter’s uncle, Ben, cuts in with his own laughter and says, “She was like that her whole life. _Magnetic Mary_ , we used to call her. Crashed our dad’s car so many times he bought her her own.”

They all share another laugh. It feels good, Bucky realizes, sitting around a table with Mary’s family, reminiscing about their time together, how much she meant to all of them. But it feels better with his son sitting across from him, his hand still resting on Bucky’s own. Bucky occasionally catches him looking up at him and smiling and feels a warm, peaceful feeling spread through his whole body. An aching sense of loss sits heavy on his chest, realizing what he’s missed out on for the past fifteen years, but more than that, he wants to give Peter the love he deserves, to make up for lost time in whatever way he can.

…

The weeks that follow are the best Bucky can remember in his life. He rents a motel room and promises to see the Parkers every day, and he does. May and Ben are nothing but kind to him, welcoming him into their home with open arms - Ben insists he stays for dinners and May finds him a temp job as a custodian at her hospital so he can get back on his feet, make a life for himself.

He lays low, cycling between the hospital and the Parkers’. His body heals, he feels more and more like himself. He knows he’ll never really be the same, but he’s okay with that. Peter makes him feel okay with that.

Peter asks him one day, shy and a little abashed, if they can go to Coney Island. Bucky’s heart does a painful little squeeze and he says, as evenly as he can, “Sure, kiddo.”

As soon as they reach the long boardwalk, Peter clings onto Bucky’s elbow and says with an infectious grin, “I always wanted to do this with you. Well, I didn’t know _you_ , but my dad - you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Bucky says, and HYDRA’s taken almost everything from him, but he has this.

Peter makes Bucky go up the Cyclone with him (“Father-son bonding, right?” “If I hurl, it’s _your_ fault.”) and as they totter out of the roller coaster exit lane, Peter leans heavily on him, laughing at Bucky’s pinched expression. “I thought you were like a badass soldier or something? Don’t tell me you can’t handle a wooden rollercoaster!”

“I’ve been on planes falling apart that were a smoother ride than that,” he says, letting Peter link their arms together again. “Man, last time I rode that thing was…decades ago,” he thinks out loud, looking up at the rickety structure. “I made Steve - my friend - go up with me. Poor kid nearly puked up a lung.” He laughs, soft and a little regretful. “Guess this is karma, huh?”

Peter tilts his head, looking up at him curiously. “What…happened to Steve?”

Bucky shrugs a shoulder. “Lost touch.” His heart constricts painfully in his chest again with the sense of grief. “I haven’t seen him in - ” he almost says _a hundred years,_ “ - a really long time.”

“You should call him,” Peter says, like it’s nothing, no big deal at all. “Or send him a friend request on Facebook.”

“I don’t think he owns a Facebook.”

Peter wrinkles his nose adorably as he laughs. “Ew, Dad, don’t say it like that, you sound so _old._ Nobody says _owns a Facebook_. We say _on_ Facebook.”

Bucky’s heart does a funny somersault in his chest at _Dad._ He squeezes Peter into his side, warmth spreading up his spine. “ _On_ Facebook? You kids and your jargon, no wonder nobody ever knows what the hell you’re talking about.”

Laughing again, Peter grabs his hand, starts dragging him towards the duck-hunting booth. “Come on, _Pops_ , let’s put those Secret Spy skills to work! I want that stuffed dog.”

“Wow, kiddo, when did you get so spoiled?”

Peter shrugs, already requesting the toy rifle from the carnie across the counter. “I dunno. Like…four weeks ago, when you showed up?” he says, giving him a cheeky grin.

Bucky shakes his head. The kid is right - he has been spoiling him. But as he takes the offered toy gun and shoots ten rubber ducks perfectly in a row, winning the giant stuffed dog that Peter fawns over excitedly, his son looks up at him with his grinning, bright, perfect little face, and Bucky really can’t bring himself to care about anything else in the world.

…

Peter doesn’t drop the Steve thing.

He casually mentions it now and then over the next few weeks, pretty much any time they’re making plans to go out and do things together. “We should invite Steve,” he says one night as they’re making plans to tour the museum the following Saturday. “You said he liked art stuff, right? I bet he’d come.”

“I don’t know how to get a hold of him,” Bucky finally admits, hoping that’ll be enough for Peter to just drop it. It’s not doing either of them any good to pretend he can ever be friends with Steve again. “And really, Pete, it’s been so long that I bet he’s forgotten all about me by now.”

“My mom never forgot about you, and she only knew you for six weeks,” Peter says, more seriously than Bucky’s ever heard him sound. “You said Steve was your _best friend._ And you still remember lots about him. There’s no way he’s forgotten you if you guys were as good of friends as you said.”

“He might not even live here anymore,” Bucky tries, lamely. He knows for a fact Steve is in Manhattan with the rest of Peter’s superhero idols. “And I tried pressing 4 on the telephone the other day and it didn’t even take me to an operator.”

Peter hunches over in a fit of laughter, almost falling off the couch before he regains composure. “Oh my _god,_ Dad, _no._ ” He reaches over and picks up his laptop from the floor, then turns it on and pushes it into Bucky’s lap on the other end of the couch. Bucky peeks at his son over the top of the laptop, then stares blankly at the open white and blue screen in front of him that says _facebook_ in the top left-hand corner. “Here, use this. Just type his name in the search bar at the top and click on the profile with his photo.”

 _Bad idea,_ Bucky’s mind says to him, but still, he numbly lifts his hands and begins typing, one key at a time. There are several results for _Steve Rogers,_ but Bucky knows his is the one at the top, the _celebrity_ one, with the profile picture of Captain America’sshield.

“Okay…” he says, reluctantly. “…Now what.”

“Well, you can send him a message, or you can click on the ‘About’ tab, sometimes people have their phone numbers and email addresses listed there.”

Choosing the second option, Bucky clicks the tab and feels his mouth go dry. “There’s a phone number.”

“Oh my god!” Peter cheers, grinning, already pulling out his cellphone. “Call him! Please, please Dad, call him! This is awesome, you have to!”

He tries to push the phone at him over the top of the laptop screen, but Bucky shakes his head. “No, Pete, I - I can’t right now.” He cringes as Peter’s face falls, the boy’s shoulders hunching in disappointment. “But…” Bucky adds, already knowing he’ll regret it, “…hand me a pen. I’ll write it down.”

Grinning triumphantly, Peter rests his chin in his hands and watches Bucky jot down Steve’s phone number. “I’m proud of you, Dad,” he says, and Bucky just grumbles in response.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tags for this chapter:** Brief descriptions of blood, gore, murder and general Brock Rumlow-vibes.

He does call the phone number eventually. The slip of paper burns a hole in his pocket for a week before he gives in, and one night sitting alone in his quiet, empty hotel room, Bucky picks up the phone and with trembling fingers, he dials the ten digits scrawled in front of him.

As the phone's ringing, he feels his heart thumping loud in his ears and he actually gets a little light-headed -- and then a patriotic little trumpeting fills the receiver.

‘ _Thank you for dialing Captain America!’_

“Steve, it's--” he starts in a shaking voice,

‘ _If you are calling for aid, please dial your local emergency services. All fan voicemail is forwarded directly to my inbox,”_ continues Steve's tinny voice, _“and while I may not be able to respond, I listen to every one!”_

Bucky exhales slowly, his breath coming out ragged and shallow. He doesn't know if the cold weight on his chest is of relief or fresh grief.

“ _You can leave your message after the trumpets. Avengers, assemble!_ ”

A cheerful trumpeting plays again, and Bucky nearly puts the phone down. His fingers stay tight around the receiver though, and he closes his eyes. “Steve,” he says, his voice soft, almost unrecognizable to his own ears. “It's me. It's Bucky.”

He lets the silence drag on too long, then says, just to fill the void, “I’m… well, I’m alive.”

Stupid. Obvious. He grits his teeth, hating that he let Peter talk him into this.

“I’ve been HYDRA’s prisoner since that day on the train,” he says, too fast, a whispered confession. The weight in his chest lifts slightly, opening his lungs for him to breathe. He takes a deep inhale, his head still fuzzy and light. “They-- kept me in cryo, in Siberia, for most of it. Um, I’ve escaped a few times, like now, and-- I’m in New York. Queens.”

His hands are shaking. Why are his hands shaking? Bucky looks down at his metal palm, and clenches it into a fist.

“And I’d… like to see you, sometime,” he finishes lamely, feeling completely ridiculous. “If you want to, I mean.”

Another stretch of silence. Bucky swears he counts every single dot on his ceiling before he steels his nerves and says, “I’m, uh, staying at a motel right now, but hopefully I’ll have my own place soon. When I get one, you should… stop by.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “There’s… someone I want you to--”

 _‘We’re sorry.’_ cuts in a robotic, female voice, _‘you have exceeded your voicemail message length. Good-bye.'_

The phone cuts off, and Bucky holds it away from his face and stares at it for a moment, before he feels like maybe it was for the best, and hangs up. 

...

Adjusting is difficult. Bucky still has nightmares most nights, and it's for this reason that he declines the Parkers when they ask him to move in after two months. He knows he screams things, begs his handlers not to make him kill, shouts like they're putting him on ice again. He doesn't know how he'd explain any of that to Ben and May, and certainly not to Peter.

His son catches him in a nightmare once - they're riding the bus back from a day trip out to MOMA (Peter has a bucket list of New York tourist traps he insists they visit together) and, exhausted from their journey, Bucky nods off on the Q2. He doesn't scream anything this time thankfully, but Peter wakes him up, shaking his shoulder hard and whispering urgently, “Dad? _Dad_. Dad, wake up!”

He jolts awake and flexes his metal fingers. “You're okay,” Peter continues with a wince. Bucky sits upright and looks down - his fingers are still twined with Peter's and, to his horror- he's squeezing the kid's hand so tight his knuckles have gone white. 

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses, pulling his hand back like he's been burned. “I'm so sorry Pete, I didn't-- Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter says quickly, shaking out his hand. He leans into Bucky's space and peers up at him worriedly. “Are _you_ okay, Dad? You were mumbling and stuff - it sounded like… Russian, or something.”

Bucky stiffens, looking down at his lap as he grabs Peter's hand, trying to massage the life back into his numb fingers. “I get nightmares,” he says, like that could possibly encompass the entirety of what happens in his head.

Not looking entirely convinced, Peter looks closely at him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Bucky shakes his head firmly. “No. Definitely not. Don't worry about me, Pete. I didn't hurt you, did I?”

Peter frowns, but he sits back, curling into Bucky's side and resting his head on his shoulder. “I'm tougher than I look,” he says, wrapping his fingers into Bucky's again. Peter is a solid line of warmth against his side, calming and centering.

Bucky smiles, gently petting his hair. “Yeah, I know.”

So he stays at the motel, despite the way Peter wilts everytime they have to say goodbye, even though it kills him a little when Peter hugs him so hard his spine cracks a bit and his son says softly, “Promise me I'll see you tomorrow?”

Until he can figure out how to come clean about… everything, it's for the best. 

It's one of these evenings that Bucky is mercifully startled awake from a nightmare by his hotel room phone ringing off the hook.

He takes a second to collect his breath before he picks up.

“ _Bucky_ ,” comes May's frantic voice. “ _Is Peter with you?”_

Fear drops with a swoop in Bucky's gut and he bolts upright, his skin prickling with adrenaline. “No, I'm-- no, where'd he go? I'm at the motel.”

“ _He's gone, he left his phone, this isn't like Peter at all! We-- We thought he'd be with you,"_ May cries, fear cracking through her words.

“I'm on the way,” Bucky says, already pulling on his boots and jacket. He assures May that he's keeping an eye out and will update her if he sees anything.

It’s a struggle keeping his fears at bay as he makes his way over to their neighborhood. He knocks on the door first, and Ben answers in an instant, looking ruffled and unkempt in his nighttime flannel.

“No sign of him yet,” the man says, looking every bit as anxious as Bucky feels. “This isn’t like Peter at all, Buck. He’s never snuck out, and especially without his phone-- what if someone--”

“Ben, calm down,” Bucky urges. “I’m sure he’s-- I’m sure he’s okay. Stay here with May in case he comes back. I’ll go around the block and see if he’s at the gas station or something, maybe he just took a walk.”

The man nods, and Bucky takes off to the building across the road, the one with the exterior fire escape. He climbs it, as quietly as possible so as not to wake anyone in the dead of night, and uses the window ledge on the top floor to vault himself onto the roof.

There’s no sign of Peter on the street adjacent or parallel to their apartment building, so Bucky circles the perimeter of the roof, trying to spot him. He takes his time, surveying every street he can see from the tall vantage point of the building’s roof, listening to the loudness of New York even though it’s the middle of the night. There are still people about, making noise, and traffic, and planes and the ocean and a billion other things giving credit to New York’s nickname as _the city that never sleeps._

He turns back to the other end of the building, where he can see the Parkers’ residence, and is about to climb down when he catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, and sees a figure dressed head-to-toe in red and blue _swinging_ through the air and landing on the roof of the their apartment.

Bucky distantly recognizes him as that Spider-Man guy Peter’s told him so much about (not nearly as much as the other superheroes, especially Iron Man and Steve. Bucky can’t help but wonder how Pete would react if he knew the Steve Bucky is always talking about is actually _the_ Captain America).

Spider-Man glances at his surroundings before slowly scaling down the side of the building and stopping at… Peter’s window. Bucky feels a jolt of protective anger, though he tries to talk himself down from it. Maybe Spider-Man heard Peter is missing and is here to help? But why wouldn’t he try to knock on the front door?

No, instead, Spider-Man quietly slides Peter’s window open and crawls inside. Bucky books it down the fire escape off the roof, no longer caring if he wakes everyone in the building up. If Spider-Man is sneaking around Peter’s bedroom, he wants to know why.

He doesn’t want to make a scene in front of May and Ben, so he climbs up the fire escape after Spider-Man and follows him in through Peter’s window. The hero is standing there, grabbing something from under Peter’s bed, his face hidden, and Bucky jumps down from the window ledge loudly enough for the other man to hear and says, “Explain yourself, Spider-Man.”

A head pops up from the side of Peter’s bed and fixes him with wide, panicked eyes. Bucky feels the color drain from his face and his legs go kind of numb.

“... _Peter?”_

“I can explain!” His son cries, even as he tosses his homemade mask under the bed. “It’s-- He’s a friend, I’m b- borrowing the costume--”

“I saw you _swing through_ your bedroom window!”

Peter laughs nervously, shaking his head. “No, that’s-- that wasn’t me--”

“Stop,” Bucky interjects, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Peter, your aunt and uncle called me thinking you’d _run away_. You left without saying anything, you didn’t even take your phone. What’s going on?”

“Oh, shit.” Peter’s shoulder slump and he runs a gloved hand through his sweaty hair. “I was… I was just on patrol,” he says miserably, looking up at his dad with wide eyes. “I never take my phone. One time I got hit by a bus and it shattered, and _boy_ , May was mad--”

“You got hit by a bus?” Bucky echoes, feeling suddenly very dizzy.

“Yeah,” Peter says, sounding a little proud now. “Dad, I’m _really_ strong. And I do good! I can help loads of people as Spider-Man, _please_ don’t tell May and Ben, they won’t let me patrol anymore.”

“How… How long have you been Spider-Man?” Bucky asks, sitting down on the edge of Peter’s desk.

“Almost two years.” Peter smiles a little, relaxing when he realizes Bucky isn’t going to run downstairs and tattle on him. “Dad, I can _save_ people,” he says, taking a tentative step closer to him. “I know it’s not the stuff that Iron Man and Captain America do, but I can _help_ people.”

Bucky looks at his son for a long moment, that warmth he’s recognizing as pride glowing warm in his chest. “I know, Pete. And I’m not gonna stop you.”

Peter twists his fingers in front of him, all excited and nervous energy at once. “So you’re-- you’re not _mad_?” he asks cautiously.

“Mad?” Bucky shakes his head incredulously. “No, I’m-- I’m not mad. I mean, I wish you would’a told me, could’ve saved me a heart attack on the way here,” he laughs, but he falters when Peter just looks miserably down at his feet, a pained expression on his face.

“I _wanted_ to tell you,” Peter says in a soft voice. “But I-- I dunno, I didn’t want you to be… weirded out.”

“...Weirded out?”

Peter wrings his hands anxiously. “It’s just-- I mean, I _just_ got you, and things are going so well. I never--” his voice breaks, young and vulnerable, “I never thought I’d _ever_ get the chance to meet my dad, and I just-- I don’t wanna lose you.”

“Hey, hey, what d’you mean? You’re not gonna lose me,” Bucky says firmly, going to Peter. He puts his hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye. “Peter, I promised you, didn’t I? I’m not leaving you. Not ever again.”

With a shaky little inhale, Peter shrugs a shoulder. “I dunno, I was _scared_ you might think-- think it’s just too much. Having a kid, all of a sudden, and then finding out your kid’s Spider-Man? I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted t- to run away.”

A wave of guilt crashes over Bucky and he shakes his head vehemently. “Peter, look at me.” Watery brown eyes cautiously meet his, and he smiles at Peter despite the ache in his own chest. “Peter, I _love_ you. Fuck, I’ve missed out on your entire life, but I love you, kid. Nothing you could do would ever make me leave.”

Peter gives him a wobbly smile. “You promise?”

“Pete, you could tell me you’re Dr. Doom and that wouldn’t scare me off. I _promise_ , you’re stuck with me forever,” Bucky says with all the conviction in his heart. “C’mere.” He pulls Peter into a tight hug, letting out a soft ‘ _oof_ ’ when Peter squeezes him back with a bit of his superstrength. “You weren’t kidding about being strong,” he grunts, but he’s smiling wide as he holds his kid in his arms.

Peter lets out a relieved little laugh, burrowing his face in Bucky’s shirt. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says in a muffled voice.

He gently pulls them apart, petting Peter’s mussed hair and looking intently at him. “I get it. Just… no more big, potentially life-threatening secrets, ‘kay?” He thinks of his own secrets, of what this means. Maybe, a hopeful little voice in him says, with an enhanced kid, maybe things would be okay. Maybe they can live a real life together if Peter knows -- he could handle Bucky’s past. “I think,” he starts slowly, “I have some secrets I ought to tell you too. But first, we should tell your aunt and uncle you’re okay, they were pretty worked up.”

“You’re not gonna tell them about--?”

“I won’t. That’s not my secret to tell,” Bucky assures him, throwing Peter a hoodie to slip on over his Spider-Man suit. “But as your father,” he grins at the little pout Peter gives him, “I suggest you think about it.”

With a solemn nod, Peter creaks open his bedroom door, shoulders already hunched with anticipation of punishment. As soon as Bucky follows him out into the hallway though, a chill goes down his spine. Something’s wrong. 

Peter must feel it too - they lock eyes in the darkened hallway, the air suddenly tense and cold. It’s far too quiet, an oppressive silence sitting heavy over the little brownstone. The little sounds of the Parkers’ life have all been cut off. He can’t hear the tea kettle going, nor the slow ticking of the grandfather clock Ben keeps in his study downstairs. 

“Wait here,” Bucky murmurs, putting a hand on Peter’s chest. When he opens his mouth to protest, Bucky gives him a stern look until Peter stands still against the wall, and he approaches the top of the stairwell, sticking to the shadows.

The entire apartment is pitch black. Ben and May may have gone to bed, but it’s unusual for it to be this dark. They usually leave the light above the stove on in the kitchen, at least. And he doubts they would both go to bed before knowing Peter is safe and sound.

It’s not just that though. He knows something is wrong, he feels it in the very marrow of his bones. There are no signs of life here. No creaking of a bed or cough. No rustle of sheets or feet on the floor. None of Ben’s light, repetitive snoring that Peter’s often complaining about.

As he approaches the living room at the bottom of the stairs, he knows what he will find, though he’s desperately hoping he’s wrong. He begs, with everything inside him, for it to not be what he knows it is. But then he steps through the hallway and enters the living room and the scent of heavy, metallic blood hits him before his eyes can adjust to the darkness, and he can’t deny it anymore.

“Hello, Soldier.”

Bucky turns, but he’s struck from behind. He lands, hard and heavy with a loud grunt, and grimaces as his hands, chest and face land in something warm and wet. He knows what it is by the thick smell, and he tries to roll over, his stomach lurching.

The lights suddenly come on, and his handler leans over him, a foot on his chest and a taser gun pointed down at him. “You were a real pain in the ass to find,” Rumlow says, though he’s still wearing that awful, smarmy grin. “You have no idea how many _Parkers_ live in this city.”

“How did you- ” Bucky coughs as the man stomps on his lungs, cutting off his airways. He needs to get out of here, before he uses his trigger words, before they find Peter--

“Commander,” says someone else out of Bucky’s line of sight, “there’s still one more upstairs.”

Rumlow smiles down at Bucky and doesn’t look away from him as he replies. “No survivors, lieutenant.”

Bucky snarls and lunges forward, but Rumlow is quick on the trigger and sends a tidal wave of electricity shooting through his body. He can’t even scream as he convulses in pain, gasping and groaning as fire surges through his veins and makes his limbs go numb. He tries to grit his teeth to avoid biting his tongue, but Rumlow kneels down beside him and condescendingly pets his head, like a dog, and starts reciting the goddamn words to pull him back under.

“ _No,_ ” Bucky says, trying to block them out, but they penetrate into his mind like hot knives. “Sto…”

“It’ll all be over soon, Soldier.”

He can feel his consciousness fading with every word falling from the man’s mouth, until he’s gone mostly still and compliant, knowing there’s only one word remaining before he’s entirely lost control of himself.

But suddenly, the hand in his hair is gone and so is Rumlow. Everything is quiet, still one word to go, but it never comes. Bucky can’t even turn his head to see where the man has gone, he’s paralyzed from being pulled out of his own mindset, and then, to his immense panic and relief, Peter’s face appears above him.

“Dad, _Dad,_ c’mon, we gotta get--”

Peter’s eyes glance upward briefly, and then he freezes, looking up and fixing his gaze on something behind Bucky’s head. “Wh...what...”

He can’t say anything, can’t tell Peter to run, to get as far away as he can, nothing. He tries to lift his hand, but his arms won’t cooperate. Peter begins to shake above him, hot tears running down his face and landing on Bucky’s, running down his cheeks, as if he were the one crying them.

“May,” Peter sobs, his voice breaking. “ _Ben..._ ”

_Run, Peter, please God run away!_

The boy’s eyes go wide and he goes to turn around, but it’s too late. Rumlow stabs the end of the taser into his back, subduing him. Bucky can’t do anything, can’t even catch his son as he falls beside him on the floor.

“I _was_ going to kill him. He took down four of my guys, you know,” Rumlow says, sounding completely unbothered as he looks down at Bucky again. “But then I heard him call you _Dad,_ and between those special abilities of his and your very important fatherly duties, what kind of handler would I be if I left him behind?

“D...on’t,” Bucky snarls, glaring as hatefully as he can muster. “I’ll…” _kill you. I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll kill you and everybody you love if you touch him._

The man’s grin only widens, and Bucky feels his entire body go numb, but whether it’s from the fear or the last cursed word falling from Rumlow’s lips, he doesn’t know, and then everything is black.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky wakes to screaming.

It’s the worst sound in the world, piercing his eardrums and making his head throb. He wonders vaguely who he killed this time, if his handlers will make him wait too long before they wipe him. He hopes they hurry things up. The waiting in between is always the worst.

“... _Let go_ , stop! _Dad!_ Dad, wake up,” the voice sobs, and Bucky’s pulse quickens. _Peter,_ he thinks. _Peter_. Bucky jolts to life, his body lurching against his chair, restraints locked down tight over his chest and his arms, a magnetic probe rendering his metal arm useless.

He’s sitting in his usual chair, technicians working busily at the monitors around him but the room is different. They’re in a larger lab room, deep underground and illuminated by piercing fluorescent lights. There’s an operating table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by Rumlow and his men and-- Bucky’s stomach drops at the sight of Peter, a beeping metal collar around his throat and his limbs restrained even as he thrashes violently on the table.

“ _Dad_ ,” Peter screams, frantic eyes locking with Bucky’s, and Bucky feels sick to his stomach.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not Peter -- he was supposed to run -- “Stop,” he croaks, and Rumlow looks up, turning around to give him a toothy grin.

“Daddy’s awake!” he calls, and the men around him snort in laughter. “Your kid’s something else, you know that? Healing factor of his puts yours to shame.” Rumlow gives Bucky a fond look, crossing his arms over his chest and slowly walking towards him. “So good of you to provide our research department with such a fine specimen, Soldier.”

Bucky jerks hard against his restraints, grief tight and painful in his throat.

“I gotta say, I’m surprised.” He crouches beside Bucky’s chair, his smile honey-sweet and cruel. “First thing you did when you escaped was go knock up some bitch, huh? You really _are_ just a big dumb animal, aren’t you?”

“Stop,” Bucky says again, his eyes glued to the way Peter is shaking on the table, naked except for his boxers, his skin spotted with smears of blood. Bucky can’t see any wounds on him, but two of the men gathered around Peter are holding knives, and it makes the instinctive twitch of fear inside Bucky’s gut rear like mad. “Stop, let- let him go, you have me, you don’t _need_ him-- ”

“Oh, but I _do_ need him,” Rumlow says, standing back up and glancing over at Peter’s bound, helpless form. “See, Soldier, last time you escaped? That was supposed to be a fluke. That’s what I told the bosses, anyway. A one-in-a-million defect in your programming.” He turns back to Bucky, and he’s not smiling now. “But then you went and did it again. And this time, it was a huge fuckin’ pain in all our asses. So even if I _didn’t_ plan to use your son to make sure you never, _ever_ try that shit again - which I do, spoiler alert - I’d still need something small and helpless for me and the boys to take our frustrations - which _you_ caused - out on.”

Bucky wrenches against the chair’s bonds, wild and desperate, but they hold firm and only make Rumlow smirk back down at him infuriatingly.

“It’s okay, Papa Bear,” Rumlow chuckles, walking back over to the table. “You slept through most of the _boring_ stuff. Your kid’s a champ. Hardly flinched at all when we put him under the knife.”

He places his hand on Peter’s flat stomach, and the boy finches, turning and sending Bucky a desperately terrified, wide-eyed look.

“I’m sure it hurt like a bitch, mind you. We had fun opening the cuts back up even as they healed, but Petey-pie here just grit his teeth and beared it. He may not have your looks, but he’s got your stubbornness, that’s for sure.”

A frantic beeping fills his ears, and Bucky realizes it’s the monitors hooked up to him, alerting the technicians around him to how his heart rate’s spiked as a surge of unstoppable rage floods through his entire body.

“But making him bleed got _boring,_ Soldier. I plan on keeping him alive, after all.” Rumlow sends him a terrifying grin, all teeth, looking almost inhuman. “Then Bryan here got the bright idea that maybe a punching bag isn’t really what the squad needs.”

Cold dread fills Bucky as he watches the man trail his hand lower on Peter’s stomach, stopping at the hem of his boxers and lightly toying with the material. Peter’s desperate struggling picks back up, and he thrashes, staring at Rumlow’s hand like it’s a loaded gun and instantly begging, “No-- _don’t,_ please please don’t, _don’t-- !”_

“Hear that, Soldier?” Rumlow asks, turning and smiling at Bucky over his shoulder. “Now _that’s_ entertainment.”

He slides his fingers under the waistband of Peter’s boxers and begins to pull them down, ignoring both Bucky and Peter’s horrified screams.

“I’m happy you woke up when you did,” Rumlow says, completely genuine. “You can tell me if he makes the same face his mother did when _she_ got fucked.”

“ _No!”_ Bucky roars, shaking as Rumlow rubs his hand between Peter’s legs. Peter’s shaking his head, tears streaming down his face and kicking as best as he can in his restraints, but it does nothing to deter Rumlow.

“Don’t worry, everyone will get a turn soon enough,” Rumlow assures Bucky, grinning as he yanks futilely at the metal bands wrapped around him. “We don’t want Papa Bear to miss his boy getting his cherry popped,” he says to the other men’s laughter.

“Please,” Bucky shouts, his voice cracking as he watches Peter’s eyes squeeze shut, tears dripping silently down his cheeks. “ _Please_ , I won’t run, I’ll do anything, just _don’t_. Don’t do this,” he pleads brokenly.

Rumlow pulls his hand back mercifully, turning to look at Bucky appraisingly. “Oh, _I’m_ not gonna do anything. At least, not just yet.” He points an accusing finger at Bucky. “ _You’re_ gonna fuck him, Soldier.”

Bucky lurches back, not missing the way Peter flinches on the table. “What?”

“C’mon,” Rumlow says, turning his palms upwards. “Haven’t I always been a good handler? I’ve treated you alright.” When Bucky stares at him in silent disbelief, he continues with a smirk, “You make sure you show your boy a good time, ‘cause you and your brat pissed off the whole STRIKE team, and I’ll tell you he ain’t gonna be making many happy memories down here.”

“No,” Bucky says hoarsely, feeling sick to his stomach. “You can’t-- _Please_ , don’t.”

“It’s my way or yours, Soldier, I’m giving you a choice. That’s more than I can say you deserve.”

Bucky shakes his head, bile creeping up his esophagus. “That’s-- I won’t, I won’t hurt him like that.”

Rumlow’s face sets in cold disappointment. “Shit, you spend two months out of my fuckin’ sight and get yourself a whole new moral compass. I liked you better as a dumb killing machine.” He turns back to Peter with a sigh, petting the boy’s cheek with mock sympathy. “Well kid, I tried,” he says with a shrug. “Guess your daddy doesn’t care about you after all. Bryan, this was your idea, you’re up first--”

“Dad,” Peter sobs, his voice high and trembling, shaking again as one of the men steps forward, a cruel smile on his face. “Dad, please, _stop him please-!”_

The sound of Peter’s desperate begging and sobs absolutely shatters Bucky. He pulls futilely at his restraints, his own face soaked in tears matching his son’s. Before he can tell Peter how sorry he is, how much he loves him, or that everything will be okay, Rumlow opens his fucking mouth again.

“You heard him, kid. He said he wouldn’t.” He runs his hands over Peter’s thighs, hips and stomach as the other man presses between Peter’s legs and rips his boxers clean off his body. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll still get your Daddy’s cock, later.” Rumlow grins and pets Peter’s hair, the way he always does to Bucky, making him bare his teeth in a snarl. “Though, I guess you could say he won’t _really_ be your Daddy…” He kneels down until he’s almost whispering in the boy’s ear, a murmur, just barely loud enough for Bucky to hear, “...and he won’t be nearly as gentle as us.”

“No,” Bucky sobs, his whole body trembling at the idea of them ordering him to do such a thing, when he’s helpless to refuse. “God, no, please, _anything_ but that!”

“I already gave you that option, and you threw it back in my face,” Rumlow says. “Now you get to sit there and watch us turn your little boy inside out on our cocks.”

Peter starts sobbing, not even begging, just crying helplessly as the man pulls his cock out of the pants of his uniform and slides it between his thighs.

“Permission to shut him up, sir?” one of the other men asks, his hand low on his belt, forebodingly.

Rumlow shakes his head and grins at Bucky. “Not just yet, Thompson,” he says, totally unaffected by Bucky’s heated glare. “I want his Daddy to listen to him scream for a while, first.”

The man standing between Peter’s legs grunts in frustration, pulling back slightly. “I think I might actually need some lube, Commander. I can’t get in. Kid is crazy tight.”

Rumlow looks impressed, glancing between Peter’s legs, humming thoughtfully. “You don’t say? Guess we have this sucker on too low.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small remote, then presses a button that has the boy’s collar lighting up. Peter’s sobs fade into a helpless whimper, his body relaxing, against his will. Bucky watches as his arms and legs loosen, his eyelids drooping, like he’s having trouble keeping them up.

“Please,” Peter begs, voice very small and quiet, “Please, don’t…”

“He really _is_ your son, Soldier,” Rumlow says, thoughtfully. He looks up and their eyes meet, and the man smiles, almost fondly. “He even begs the way you do.”

“Fuck, Sir, I’m still not having any luck here,” Bryan grunts, frustratedly. “Do we have a pair of forceps or something? We’re gonna need to pry this bitch open if we wanna fuck him without skinning our cocks.”

“Not too much,” Rumlow says. “I’m looking forward to splitting him in half when it’s my turn.”

“No!”

Every person in the room turns to look at him. Even Bucky is surprised by the sound of his own voice, it sounded nothing like anything he remembers. Rumlow opens his fucking mouth, probably to taunt him again, but Bucky glares through the hot tears running down his face and says, “I’ll…” He gulps, glances at Peter, then rips his gaze away, utterly sick with guilt. “I’ll… do it. Just - don’t hurt him. Just _stop.”_

“I’m tempted to say it’s too late to change your mind,” says Rumlow. Then he runs his hand through Peter’s hair and cups the boy’s cheek with fake tenderness, “But even though _you_ deserve to be punished, I think this sweet little thing here deserves to be fucked nice and lovingly for his first time.” He smiles and nods to one of the technicians, looking completely victorious. “Doc, get him one of these nifty collars. I think he’s gonna need his hands.”

Bucky lets out a ragged exhale as the men surrounding Peter reluctantly step away from the operating table, though the sense of relief doesn’t last long. One of the technicians stoops in front of him and fits him with a collar, then clicks it shut, tiny gears shifting as it locks in place. The metal bars from the chair slide away and he gets to his feet shakily, nausea building in his gut as he staggers toward the operating table.

“Dad,” Peter cries softly, his fingers twitching weakly at his sides.

Bucky is dimly aware of the soldiers moving aside, some of them too scared to stay within grabbing distance of him, but Rumlow stands firm on the other side of the table, gloating. Bucky fervently brushes his hands over Peter’s face, too scared to touch and yet unable to pull back. “Oh god,” he gasps, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Peter, I’m so sorry. Peter…”

Peter’s eyes blink open slowly, like he’s struggling to do even that under the influence of whatever Rumlow’s done. He looks blearily at Bucky, shuddering out a sigh. “No,” he begs, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “Dad, I wanna go home.” He sounds more and more disoriented, like he’s slipping in and out of lucidity.

Bucky’s breath comes in short. “I know kid,” he says, flexing his metal arm.

Like he can read his thoughts, Rumlow says coolly, “Try using that arm on me and I’ll shock you ‘til your brain’s fried, and then I’ll skin your boy in front of you like a fucking apple.”

Bucky sends him a hateful look, but he can feel the low thrum of the collar around his throat, the field of it disabling his metal arm. With Peter’s mutant powers suppressed, weak as he is and nothing but Bucky’s hand-to-hand combat to rely on, they wouldn’t make it two steps outside the lab.

“Let’s get going, Soldier. Otherwise I’ll call out your Mr. Hyde to get the job done,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the metal table, the loud echo of it making Peter flinch.

The realization that he’s out of options sweeps over Bucky. _I can’t_ , he wants to say, but Bryan is watching hungrily, still cupping his hard cock in his hands. “Peter,” he starts in a soft voice. When he gets no response, he brushes his thumb over Peter’s cheek.

Almost praying that the kid is unconscious, Bucky stands at the end of the table, trembling all over. He can see where the blood’s dried on Peter’s skin, vestiges of his earlier torture, and already finger-shaped bruises are sinking into his thighs where Rumlow was handling him.

“ _Longing_ ,” Rumlow snaps impatiently in Russian.

“Stop!” Bucky shouts, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears. “Fuck, stop, _please_.”

“ _Rusted_.”

“ _Stop_ \--” he’s crying again, he can hear the rest of the STRIKE team jeering behind him but he _can’t_ \--

“ _Furnace_.”

Bile rises in his throat as he lifts Peter’s limp legs and he keeps his eyes on Peter’s face, feeling sick as he reaches for his belt.

“ _Daybreak_.”

He’s going to be sick. He can’t imagine getting hard.

“ _Seventeen._ ”

Gripping himself around the base of his soft cock, he presses between Peter’s legs uselessly and all he can hear is laughter.

“ _Benign._ ”

 _Please, no_ \-- Peter’s eyes flutter open and he gazes up at him, unfocused and quiet.

“ _Nine._ ”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bucky cries, forcing himself inside. Peter’s body is too tight; it’s agony on his cock as he frantically shoves it in. Tears prickle the corners of his eyes from the pain but the thought of what Rumlow could make the Soldier do to his son is much worse.

Peter throws his head back and cries out at the intrusion. His body trembles and he thrashes against his bonds on the table and Bucky’s hands on his legs. Bucky grits his teeth, tears running down his face as Peter grips tightly around him like a vice.

Blood rushes to his head and throughout his body, making him light-headed. He holds still for a moment, then, scared that Rumlow will continuing saying the goddamn words, he pulls back slightly and pushes back in, a little further.

He starts up a rhythm like that, pulling back, then thrusting in a little deeper each time. It gets easier as Peter’s entrance is forced to stretch around him, but it also gets much harder, as each time Bucky thrusts the walls and rim of Peter’s hole massages along the length of his chafed cock, and the warmth and tight grip pleasurably fill him out, until he’s fully hard, and then every thrust feels like trying to shove his fist through a pinhole.

Peter whines and writhes underneath him, whimpering louder with every thrust once Bucky’s fully erect. His legs kick feebly and uselessly in Bucky’s arms, trying to get him out, but the collar keeps him too weak to do so.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky sobs, lowering his head so he doesn’t have to see Peter’s broken face. “I’m so sorry, Peter, I’m so sorry…”

“Fuck him good, Soldier,” Rumlow says, running his hand over Peter’s face and stroking his cheek. “Make sure you don’t pull out when you come. He’s gonna need a bit of lube to take all of us.”

Bucky snarls, but continues thrusting, trying to pretend this is all just some horrible nightmare. He closes his eyes and it’s easier to get lost in the sensation, the feeling of Peter all around his cock, sucking him inside every time he tries to pull back. The pain subsides, until all he can feel is the warm, wet, tight grip on his cock. His pace picks up as he forces himself to focus solely on the building tension within his body, fucking into Peter harder, until the boy’s gone totally lax.

Just when he thinks it’s almost over, Rumlow clicks his tongue disapprovingly and says, “Well, now that you’ve opened him up a bit, no need to have _this_ on so high, is there?”

He pulls out the little remote and presses a button, and all at once, Peter jolts to life with a cry of pain and struggles wildly against Bucky and the table straps. Bucky gasps and almost passes out from the way Peter tightens around his cock, almost squeezing the life out of it, and on instinct he wrangles the boy’s legs and presses them down against Peter’s chest, pinning them.

“ _Ah--_ “ Peter sobs, face alert and awake and totally drenched in tears. “Ah- _ahh,_ D-Dad- Dad no, stop, p-please…!” He whines and shakes his head, struggling against his hold. “No more…!”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and hollow as he holds Peter’s legs down, holding him open so he can keep inside him, his head swimming as he gets closer. 

“No, Dad,” Peter wails, tossing his head from side to side. “I don’t want this, _please_ , Dad, I don’t want it,” he sobs, half-delirious as he writhes on the table.

It’s a small, ugly mercy that Bucky finishes at all - hiding his face in Peter’s chest, he bites down hard on his bottom lip as he jerks his hips into his son’s in stuttered motions, spilling deep inside his resistant hole. Peter goes deathly still when that happens, and forcing himself to look up, Bucky watches as Peter’s mouth gapes silently open and closed, his eyes shining with tears and staring vacantly ahead as he feels his father’s cock pulsing his come deep inside his ass.

“That feel good, baby?” croons Rumlow, grabbing Peter by the face and petting his cheeks. “You like having Daddy’s come in you, huh?”

“Leave him alone,” Bucky says in a cracked voice as he slowly pulls out, trying not to watch as his cock is finally freed, the tip of him smeared in his come. “I did what you asked.”

“You did,” Rumlow agrees, and at his wave, two men Bucky vaguely recognizes from his team grab him about the elbows and drag him back to his chair and strap him back in, his pants still open around his hips. “And that’s just a taste of the kind of treats you earn when you stay with HYDRA.”

Bryan, the man from before, retakes his position at the end of the table and wraps thick fingers around Peter’s slender ankle, laughing when he screams and kicks out at him.

“Stop-- I did what you asked,” Bucky shouts indignantly, lurching forward in his straps.

Rumlow shrugs. “I also asked you to not run away again. You win some, you lose some.”

Peter screams as the man grabs him around the hips and forces his legs apart, then shoves his way inside to the hilt, groaning loudly in pleasure.

“ _Get off him!”_ Bucky shouts brokenly, rage and anguish flooding him. “Don’t _touch_ him!”

“Ahh, fuck,” Bryan hisses, pumping his hips in hard, loud squelching noises filling the lab as he fucks through Bucky’s come. “Yeah, that loosened him right up, this is way better,” he grunts as he pistons his cock in brutal motions, hunching over the end of the table to get a better angle.

“Dad, please, Dad--!” Peter is sobbing, kicking as best as he can despite the firm grip the man has on his ankles.

Rumlow barks out a cold laugh. “Ungrateful brat. God, he’s fucking shrill.”

Another man, the one who’d spoken up earlier, pulls himself out of his pants and when Rumlow sighs and steps aside, he hauls himself up on the table beside Peter’s face.

“No,” Bucky implores, although he can barely hear himself over Peter’s screaming. “No please-- don’t--”

“If you bite down,” the man on the table warns, shoving the end of his baton against the underside of Peter’s chin, “if I get even a _hint_ of teeth, I’m gonna snip off that cute little clit of yours and suffocate you with it.”

Peter sobs as the man grabs him about the jaw and forces his cock into his mouth, stretching his lips wide around the intrusion.

“I did what you said,” Bucky repeats again and again, a broken mantra as he watches the entire team line up to rape his son one by one.


	4. Chapter 4

By the end Peter is a mess, lips red and swollen and soaked in cum, just like the rest of him. Rumlow doesn’t bother turning the setting on his collar back to high - he doesn’t need to. Peter’s not fighting at all when the men are finished, just lying there, helpless.

Bucky’s never wanted the chair so badly in all the years HYDRA’s had him. He lays back, rests his head against the headrest and closes his eyes, silently begging to hear the machine starting up. He wants to forget this. He’ll let them fry his brain to a crisp if that’s what it takes.

Peter whimpering pulls him out of that fantasy, though, and he watches as one of the men pulls him off the operating table, his restraints undone, and starts dragging him over to where Bucky is in his chair. Rumlow comes with him, grinning at Bucky as he does up his pants. He’d been the last to take his turn with Peter, but Bucky swears, once he’s free Rumlow will be the first to die.

“We need to find the proper _accommodations_ for you two. What kind of handler would I be if I separated a child from their parent?” He pushes Peter forward, onto Bucky’s lap, still strapped helplessly into the chair. “So you can keep an eye on him while we find something more suitable for the happy family.”

Peter whines as the men pull his legs apart and force him to straddle Bucky, his upper body laying on Bucky’s chest, his head tucked under Bucky’s chin. Rumlow and the other guy start laughing maliciously, and Rumlow reaches a hand between Peter’s legs, making the boy jerk and cry out.

“He’s leaking all over you, Soldier,” Rumlow grins. “Maybe we’d better plug him up so he doesn’t make a mess?”

Bucky tries to tell him to stop, to back the fuck off, but it comes out garbled and muffled from the mouth guard the technicians already shoved in his mouth. Rumlow doesn’t back off, to the contrary- he moves his hand lower and, to his horror, starts pulling open Bucky’s pants.

“We can’t have him making a mess,” Rumlow says again with fake concern, “It’s your responsibility as his father to take care of this, Soldier.”

Peter jerks back, but the other man grabs his arms and starts binding them to the chair so he can’t pull away, then does the same with his legs, keeping him straddling Bucky’s lap.

Rumlow pulls Bucky’s cock out of his pants and Bucky jerks, but stops when Peter whimpers as he’s jostled roughly in his lap. Bucky groans loudly as the head of his cock is pressed against Peter’s wet, gaping hole.

“If you didn’t want the responsibility, you shouldn’t have knocked up some dumb bitch the first chance you got.”

Both Bucky and Peter cry out loudly when Rumlow grabs Peter’s hips and yanks him down in his lap, impaling him on his cock fully. The other guy quickly tightens the restraints on Peter’s legs, keeping him like that, nestled under his dad’s chin, chest-to-chest and stuck on his cock.

Peter sobs weakly into his dad’s neck, shaking like a leaf. He can feel the damp, sticky feeling of the STRIKE’s team cum smearing against his collarbones where Peter is pressing the side of his face.

Rumlow smiles down at him. “Now you keep that hole nice and warm for me, Soldier,” he says before nodding to one of the technicians around them. “I like ‘em a bit broken in. But you already knew that.”

Bucky glares hatefully at the man, who only smiles wider before walking away. He pulls uselessly at the cuffs around his wrists as soon as Rumlow and his team of goons have left, needing to hold his son if nothing else.

Sobbing, Bucky tries to turn his head so he can see the boy’s face, wishing this goddamn thing was out of his mouth so he could tell Peter how sorry he is.

“Dad,” Peter rasps, throat rough from screaming and what Rumlow’s men have done to him. “Dad.. please… get us out of here…”

Bucky can’t reply, so he nods against Peter’s hair, hoping that’ll be enough. Hoping Peter understands that Bucky wants nothing more than to get him out of here.

Peter’s quiet begging turns back into weak sobs. He curls up tighter on his dad’s chest, Bucky’s cock still balls deep inside his abused hole.

He doesn’t know how long he just lays there listening to Peter cry. But then he hears the horribly familiar sound of the machine powering up, and a thrum of electricity in his veins. He gasps, thrashing against the chair’s bonds. He tries to shout at the technicians to _stop_ , but they don’t so much as lift their heads to look at him.

Peter starts struggling on top of him, to no avail. He can probably tell something horrible is about to happen. Bucky shakes his head and tries to avoid the machinery parts as they lift and press against his temple, face, and shoulders, but he can’t.

Peter’s labored breathing and sobs turn to screams of pain even before Bucky’s do. Bucky is paralyzed from the pain of the chair shooting electricity inside of him, but Peter is still able to thrash wildly and desperately to get away from the current entering his body through his dad’s. Peter’s screams echo off the laboratory walls, even more than Bucky’s own.

The pain is excruciating, absolutely mind-numbing. It’s almost all he can focus on, except Peter’s screams, and the agonizing clench around his cock as Peter struggles and convulses on top of him. It’s all too much, Bucky can’t do anything to stop it as he feels an involuntary rush of warm liquid spill over his thighs, Peter screaming even louder against his chest.

He doesn’t know when he blacks out, only that he loses consciousness to the same horrible sound he woke up to - the desperate cry of his child in pain.

…

The days after pass in a haze for Peter. He kicks and fights back and each time he’s punished for it in much the same way - with scalpels and humiliation. In between these sessions, he’s kept in a small sealed room with Bucky. It’s a miserable, cramped space with reinforced walls and a door that the guards swipe open from the outside - Peter tries throwing himself against it for hours until his shoulders and back are littered with bruises and Bucky begs him to stop.

Reluctantly resigned to their imprisonment, Peter slides down the wall and huffs for breath, and he pretends not to see Bucky cry.

As grateful as he is that he’s allowed this one comfort of remaining with his father, Peter hates the sick feeling that crawls up his throat when Bucky looks at him, a helpless guilt in his blue eyes. The first time they’re left alone, Bucky tries to talk to him and Peter simply shakes his head, rubbing at his face in exhaustion.

Bucky leaves it alone after that. The man sits curled up in a corner of their cell, quiet like he’s scared to even acknowledge Peter’s presence. It’s killing him, so after a day of complete silence between them, Peter sighs and goes to his father, setting a hand on his knee.

“Wha– Peter, _no_ ,” Bucky says, panic in his eyes like he’s scared Peter’s going to fall apart in front of him.

“Dad, just– just hold me,” Peter says, and he burrows under Bucky’s arm, an immediate calm sinking over him when Bucky - very gingerly - puts his right arm over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers a few hours later, his breath soft against Peter’s forehead. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

Peter just nods and curls tighter into Bucky’s chest, knowing he should say he’s sorry too, that it wasn’t his fault – but his tongue sits heavy in his mouth, and he hopes the way he wraps his fingers over Bucky’s arms says it for him.

It’s hard to keep track of time down here - the hallway lights from outside the cell are always on and mealtimes feel few and far in between - but they take Bucky out for ‘individual sessions’ frequently.

Each time Peter clings to his dad, scared he won’t see him again - and it usually takes two guards armed with electric batons to wrench Peter off of him. They keep Bucky for _hours_ , and when he comes back, he’s drenched in sweat, trembling and quiet. Peter asks him what they do, what they want with Bucky. 

Bucky just looks at him, his normally stoic face a shattered shell of a man - and he says in a quiet, broken voice, “I kill for them.”

Peter doesn’t push it. All he needs to know is that HYDRA hurts his father, and they killed May and Ben. That’s all he needs to fuel him.

He gets his opportunity when they drag Bucky out for one of his sessions. Peter puts up a fight, same as always - this time, in his struggling he slams Bucky’s metal arm against the spot to the left of the cell door, and when a guard swings his electric baton at Peter’s head, he ducks, letting the current pass through Bucky’s metal arm and against the wall. He feels guilty about hurting his father, but he hopes it’ll be worth it in the end.

Peter waits until the guards’ and Bucky’s footsteps recede down the hallway and he tries shouting a few times. After maybe ten minutes of intermittent yelling, when he goes ignored as expected, Peter makes his move. He stands at the opposite end of the cell, and readying himself, he ducks into a spring and hurls himself at the door as hard as he can.

With a shrieking groan of metal, the door caves outward - its access system shorted by the electrical current via the baton. “ _Yes_!” Peter doesn’t have much time left - he throws himself at the seam of the hinges again and again until there’s a small enough crack that he can fit his fingers through and, working as fast as he can, he pushes outward until he can worm through the seam he’s caved out.

He’s only been allowed out in this hallway - there’s a bathroom they take him to and another door beyond that, so he runs in that direction. The larger hallway beyond that door is massive and thankfully empty, but Peter hears two technicians’ voices approaching from somewhere further down in the wing so he crawls up the wall and onto the ceiling, praying they won’t think to look up.

Hardly daring to breathe, Peter makes his way through the winding halls desperately searching for where they might be keeping his dad. Between Spider-Man and the Winter Soldier, they can fight their way out. It’s this spark of hope that keeps Peter moving forward, even when he passes by the operating room they’d kept him in that first day.

He hears the screams first. A dull electrical humming whirs up and then he hears Bucky’s voice, an awful, pained sound that drops horror in his belly. Crawling as fast as he can, he follows the screaming down another hallway dimly lit with flickering lights, where they seem to be originating from a smaller lab. Mercifully Bucky’s screams finally taper off, followed by a man’s familiar laughter. Hatred pools hot in Peter’s veins, and he promises he’ll give Rumlow what he deserves for this.

“Sit pretty for me, Soldier. Few more wipes and we’ll be back to mission-ready,” Rumlow’s voice says from within one of the rooms. “I’m gonna take a leak. Prep him for training, I want him geared up for close-combat.” His footsteps approach the lab door and moving quickly, Peter ducks back out to the main hallway, pressing himself flat against the ceiling and hoping against hope that Rumlow won’t pass underneath him.

He hears booted footsteps thumping towards him, then they turn through another door just before the hallway opens up to where Peter’s pressed flat against the ceiling. Exhaling shakily, Peter clambers down the wall and runs into the lab.

Bucky is seated in a chair similar to the one from the first operating room, but this time he’s not strapped in - his shirt’s been removed and he’s shining with sweat though, breathing hard and staring straight ahead. A technician stands above him and she drops her clipboard in shock when she sees Peter.

“What are you–?” she gets out, before Peter runs at her and knocks her head back against the arm of the chair. She crumples to the floor, maybe concussed but no worse.

“Dad!” Peter cries, running to Bucky’s side. “Dad, we gotta go, Rumlow’s gonna be back soon.”

But Bucky just stares vacantly ahead, his jaw set and seemingly unable to hear Peter.

“Dad,” Peter tries again, a little more urgently. “C’mon, it’s clear right now but they’re probably gonna sound the alarm soon, we _gotta go_.”

When his dad just continues to stare at him blankly, Peter grabs his hand and yanks him to his feet, swallowing down the urge to cry. There’s no time to break down or question why he’s acting so weird, they need to get away and they need to do it now.

Bucky doesn’t say anything or make any move at all, so Peter starts urgently dragging him towards the door. “It’s okay Dad, we’re gonna get out of here, it’s gonna be okay,” he assures, despite the horrible feeling of dread that’s crawling up his own spine.

His dad follows behind him obediently, but even the way he’s moving feels different. Robotic, almost. It’s like they somehow switched off his brain, and that thought terrifies Peter, because they’ll both need to fight if they want to get out of this place. But right now isn’t the time to sit and speculate whether his dad’s in fighting shape. They can’t afford to waste a single second.

 _I’ll protect him_ , Peter promises resolutely as they run for the door. _Even if Dad can’t fight, I’ll fight for the both of us. I’ll get us out of here. I have to_.

But that thought dies out in a heartbeat when the doors slide open and Rumlow steps through them, his eyes only widening for a second before he stares at Peter with a terrifying, unreadable expression. “Going somewhere?”

“Stay back,” Peter says, quickly reaching over to the operating table next to them and grabbing a scalpel from it, holding it out in front them protectively. “Don’t come near us!”

Rumlow stares at him, then his lips pull up into a smirk and he glances up at Bucky over Peter’s head. “Maybe we made you into the wrong kind of asset after all. Could have used you for breeding instead- you sure do make cute kids.”

The man takes a step forward. Peter brandishes the scalpel in his hand as threateningly as he can, but Rumlow seems totally undisturbed.

“Spider-Man saves the day, huh Pete?” Rumlow smiles at him. “Saves his old man from the big bad men and gets to run home to Queens to live happily ever after.”

“Stay _back_ ,” Peter says again when Rumlow takes another step forward. His voice sounds so weak and scared and Peter hates it, try as he might he just can’t make his voice sound strong right now.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news kiddo, but you’re fighting for nothing. Even if you did manage to escape, there’s no _happily ever after_ waiting for you. At least- not where you and your dad are concerned. Not anymore.”

“Shut up,” Peter seethes, “you don’t know anything!”

“No? You mean to tell me things aren’t just a little bit different between you two now? You really think things can go back to the way they were?”

Peter hates that he flinches backwards when the man steps closer, but he hates even more how badly his grip is shaking around the scalpel.

“Do you really think you two can ever have a normal relationship after this?” The grin on Rumlow’s face evolves into something sickening and twisted, and makes Peter’s stomach roll in disgust and fear. “No, Peter. You’re going to think about it every time you look at him for the rest of your life. Even if I let you go right now. Even if _Daddy Dearest_ killed me and every other agent of HYDRA, you’re never going to get that back. You’re never going to see your dad’s face without thinking about that time he held you down and fucked you because I told him to. You’re never going to forget the way it felt when your own father took your virginity while you were strapped to a table in a room full of strangers, all waiting for their own turn.”

“Shut _up_!” Peter screams, feeling hot tears run down his face, just as hot as his skin, red and flushed from the anger that wells up in him. “Shut up! I’m not listening to you!”

He pulls his arm back, scalpel at the ready, teeth bared like an animal ready to attack.

“You aren’t gonna stop us with your sick mind games,” Peter says, trying to sound as brave as he can. “Especially when it’s two against one!”

The grin on Rumlow’s face morphs into something that almost looks _affectionate_. “You’re right,” he says gently, “it is.”

He doesn’t even glance at Bucky, just nods at Peter and utters a quick, firm, “Soldier.”

Peter’s senses flare up in warning, but he has no time to react before he’s struck from behind. He hits the floor hard with a cry of pain, the scalpel going flying from his hands. Before he can even get his bearings, he’s being pulled off the ground and held in a tight grip, his arms bent painfully behind his back, like a prisoner’s.

“You know what I like about you, kid?” Rumlow asks as he steps in front of him, twirling the remote for Peter’s collar idly in his hand. “Same thing I liked about your old man, when I found out his programming needs constant _application_. You got spirit.” He smiles widely, reaches down and pets Peter’s hair condescendingly. “I like that. Makes it all the more fun when I get to show you where your place is.”

Rumlow takes a step back, looks them both over for a moment, then says to Bucky, “Teach him a lesson.”

“My dad would never hurt me,” Peter says immediately, and finally his voice _does_ sound strong, like he wanted it to. It’s not hard- he knows for a fact that his dad would never cause him harm. Even in the laboratory, Bucky did his best to make sure it didn’t hurt. Rumlow might be able to force him to do terrible things– even terrible things to _him_ – but he’d _never_ hurt him on the man’s orders.

It’s hard to hang on to that belief when the first blow comes, but Peter tries. He tries to believe that this isn’t real, that it’s not really happening when Bucky throws him down and lands a painful, rib-shattering kick to his chest. And then he tries to believe that maybe this isn’t even Bucky- maybe it’s an evil twin, or a clone, or some kind of shapeshifter. But that hope is extinguished when Peter blocks a punch only to have his dad’s metal fist drive hard into the side of his face, splitting his lip and lacerating his cheek until blood is pouring down his skin. He’s spent the last two months mapping out that hand reverently; he knows it like it was his own.

The worst part isn’t realizing he was wrong about his dad. The worst part is that, even as Bucky beats him, his face cold and impassive, like they aren’t father and son, and Peter feels his bones break and his skin bruise and his blood spill from his veins, the worst part is that he can’t bring himself to fight back.

He might have even had a chance, if he went for Rumlow first, got the remote away from him before he could activate his collar. They might both be more experienced than him, but he’s pretty sure his mutation is vastly superior to their training.

But he doesn’t.

He blocks the attacks as best he can, arms covering his face, trying to roll out of the way of the kicks as they come, but Bucky is relentless and he rains the abuse down on him like a monsoon. Peter feels a horrible rush of lightheadedness as his head is kicked brutally, and then things go in and out of blackness as he feels two large hands, one flesh and one metal, coil tightly around his neck and start to squeeze.

Peter gasps, wrapping his own thin hands around his dad’s wrists and trying to pry them off, desperate for air– but when he pulls the fingers of his dad’s flesh hand backwards and sees a flash of pain cross the man’s face, Peter’s own hands go lax, and he loosely holds his dad’s wrists instead, sobbing.

“Dad…” he gasps, his vision darkening with big spots of black, fading in and out. “Pl…ease… _Dad_ …”

“Good job, Soldier,” Rumlow praises from above them. “I think this deserves a reward.”


	5. Chapter 5

When Bucky doesn’t move, Rumlow laughs almost fondly. “Go on Soldier. Flip him over, like this.” Peter feels hands at his waist, turning him onto his stomach, and he thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Dad,” he says weakly, blood pooling beneath his lips, staining the immaculate lab tiles.

Rumlow’s hand grips the back of his HYDRA-issued scrubs and yanks them down and he sobs into the floor, his fingers scrabbling as he tries to drag himself away. Then there’s a pair of familiar hands at his waist, tugging him back like it’s nothing. 

“Good,” croons Rumlow from behind him. “That’s right, Soldier. You deserve a treat.” There’s the sound of fabric shifting, and then to Peter’s horror he feels something warm pressing between his legs.

“No, not again,” he slurs, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. “ _Dad_ , please…”

Another laugh from Rumlow, and then the blunt head of a cock pushes clumsily against his hole, sickeningly familiar. “Push a little harder, Soldier. If you hold his ass up, it’ll give you a better– yeah, you got it.”

Peter cries out as his dad’s hands tighten painfully around his hips, hauling him up onto his knees and elbows, and then he feels Bucky forcing his cock inside, too dry and painfully stretching him open. “No!” he shouts, fingers clutching at the floor again, but this time Bucky’s ready for him - he drags Peter back, impaling him on the thick column on his cock, impassive as he bears down on Peter, fucking his own son into the floor. 

“Dad, Dad, _stop_ , please,” he whimpers, tears streaming down his face as his dad’s fingers dig into his hips, holding him in place as his cock pounds painfully into him. “Please, it _hurts–_!”

“How’s your reward, Soldier?” Rumlow asks over him. “Tell me what it feels like.”

“It’s tight,” Bucky’s voice responds immediately, unemotional like he’s delivering a factual report. Peter rolls his face against the floor, shuddering out weak sobs.

“Does it feel good?”

There’s a half step of silence, Peter continues to sob as his dad’s harsh hands dig viciously into his hips, his cock somehow feeling much bigger than it did before.

“It’s alright, you can answer. Tell me, does it feel good? That warm hole nice and tight around your cock?”

“…Yes.”

“Good.”

Peter harshly jerks when he feels a second set of hands grab his hips, right beside Bucky’s. He claws uselessly at the tile floor, wanting to rip himself away but paralyzed by the immense pain shooting up his spine and into his stomach from the force of Bucky’s thrusts.

“It’ll feel much better if you start a sort of rhythm,” Rumlow says. His voice almost doesn’t sound anything like him. He sounds gentle and loving, like he’s patiently coaching a child, not the merciless handler of a brainwashed assassin. “Not just in and out, in and out. You want to work your way up to the deep thrusts. Start slow, bounce him a little. Like this.”

Peter gasps then whines loudly when the man’s hands start moving his hips, pulling him back and forth on his dad’s cock and then guiding Bucky’s hands to do the same. Bucky follows his lead, handling him as easily as a doll. His thrusts become more shallow but more purposeful, Peter cries out loudly when he actually hears a somewhat breathless moan leave his dad’s lips.

“There, there you go. That feels so much better, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Rumlow kisses along Bucky’s bare shoulder from the back of his neck. He keeps his hands on the boy’s hips, but isn’t moving them anymore, leaving all of that up to his asset. “Mm, I missed you, Soldier,” he whispers into the man’s ear, “you just needed a bitch to fuck, right? I guess I was overlooking your needs, you had to run away to find a warm hole to stick your cock into.”

Peter tries to swallow the bile that rises in his throat when he feels the man’s hands pull his cheeks apart so he can get a better view of his dad thrusting inside of him.

“Well, I won’t make the same mistake again,” Rumlow continues speaking, “now you’ll know exactly where to go when you need to fuck something. And if you keep performing well and completing your missions successfully and without _incident,_ then he’ll be all yours, Soldier.” His voice dips into a bone-chilling whisper. “Your toy to beat and fuck and play with whenever you want. Doesn’t that sound good?”

Bucky’s thrusts pick up speed, pounding into Peter so harshly he can’t even breathe, like he’s choking on each one. But still, the man’s voice is completely vacant, not the voice of his dad. “Yes.”

Pressure and pain builds at the base of Peter’s spine, sending a deep ache through his every nerve - he realizes with a sick horror that he’s getting aroused, his cock half-hard between his legs. “ _Dad_ ,” he sobs, clawing uselessly at the floor. He turns around as best as he can, gasping when Bucky thrusts in harder than before, sending a dull jolt of pleasure through him. “ _Dad_ , please, it’s _me_ , it’s Peter, it’s your son–”

Bucky doesn’t react other than to pull Peter back harder and faster on his cock, using him like a sleeve under Rumlow’s guidance. Again, his father’s cock presses hard against the inside of his walls and Peter muffles a wounded cry into his arm, his face flushing hot with shame as his cock fills against his will.

He whines as Bucky’s fingers dig painful bruises into his hips and hold his squirming body tight against him, and Peter sobs as he feels the now-familiar sensation of a cock twitching inside him before it’s spilling its come, hot and wet deep inside his ass.

Bucky’s fingers loosen just enough that Peter is able to wriggle free. He cries out as his father’s still-hard cock slips from his aching hole, leaving him gaping and he tugs his scrubs back up his thighs, face burning with humiliation.

“Look, Soldier,” Rumlow murmurs, taking Bucky by the chin and pressing his lips against his temple. “You got your little toy all worked up.”

Biting back another whimper, Peter presses his back against the wall of the lab, curling his legs up to his chest defensively and flinching at the stretch.

“You should take care of him.” Rumlow lunges forward, grabbing a fistful of Peter’s hair and drags him back towards his dad, ignoring his yelp of pain and throwing him down on the floor in front of Bucky. “Go on, touch his little clit.” He takes Bucky’s metal wrist gently in his and guides him to the front of Peter’s scrubs, grinning when Peter’s body spasms against his will, his legs kicking out ineffectually. “Good, just like that.”

“No,” Peter sobs. He grabs his dad’s wrist and tries to pull his hand off, but Rumlow presses a button on the little remote that controls his collar, and Peter feels his super strength zap out of his muscles with a deep, sharp ache. “Dad, d-don’t- please don’t- ”

“Rub him, gently. That’s it, good boy. Feel how he’s getting harder for you?”

Rumlow’s hand covers Bucky’s and guides it up and down Peter’s clothed cock, showing him where to squeeze and how hard. Peter sobs harder as he feels his cock traitorously harden until it’s straining against the material of his scrubs, hot and heavy and twitching under his dad’s hands.

“You need to take care of your toys if you want to keep them,” Rumlow whispers into Bucky’s ear, pulling his hand back and watching closely as he continues rubbing Peter through his clothes. “Do you want to keep your toy, Soldier?”

Peter stares into his dad’s eyes, silently begging. He can feel his whole body shaking against the cold tiles and his face feels completely soaked with tears. Bucky isn’t looking at him, instead he’s staring at his own large hand covering Peter’s cock. But then he looks up at Peter’s face. His face stays emotionless and blank, and so does his voice as he chillingly answers, “Yes.”

Rumlow grins. “Take his pretty little clit out.”

Peter tugs uselessly at Bucky’s wrists as he rips the scrubs back down his thighs, revealing his hard, red cock to Bucky’s vacant stare and Rumlow’s heated gaze. He tries to wiggle free from his dad’s hands, but Bucky keeps one hand tight on his thigh, holding him still. With his metal one he takes Peter’s cock into his hand again, squeezing it lightly as he strokes it up and down.

“No!” Peter sobs, hands reaching up and covering his face when the frustration of not being able to pull Bucky’s away is too much. “Dad, no, don’t touch me! Stop it! _I don’t want you to touch me!”_

His scream is so loud that his dad actually pauses, turning and looking questioningly at Rumlow. Rumlow strokes a hand through his hair and says, “He’s a new toy, Soldier. You haven’t broken him in yet.” He nods down at Bucky’s hand on Peter’s cock. “Keep going. The more you do it, the better behaved he’ll be. You need to be a responsible f– _owner_ and take good care of your toys.”

With renewed vigor, Bucky massages up and down his cock until its leaking precome, which he spreads under his metal fingers easily until his whole cock is glistening in his hand.

“Fuck, Soldier, look how wet this bitch is for you,” he grinds against Bucky’s back, his hands digging into the skin of Bucky’s chest until his nails leave angry red lines. “Your toy’s _dripping_ for you. He loves it.”

Those words only seem to spur him on even more. He leans over Peter, rubbing and stroking at his cock insistently, watching with something like satisfaction. Peter bites down on a cry as he’s dragged over the edge and he comes between Bucky’s metal fingers, splattering come across his stomach.

Ignoring Peter’s miserable weeping, Rumlow raises Bucky’s hand up, coaxing a metal finger between his slightly parted lips. “Go on,” he coaxes, “lick it up. You did so good, you earned that treat, Soldier.”

Watching Rumlow carefully, Bucky darts his tongue out, lapping up Peter’s come from between his fingers. When Rumlow smiles adoringly at him, his shoulders relax a bit, and he sucks his fingers into his mouth, cleaning them off with no hint of emotion on his face.

“Be good and follow orders, and you’ll get a reward every time. Doesn’t that sound nice, Soldier?”

Peter sobs and turns his face away.

…

Bucky returns to himself hours, sometimes days later. He floats in between himself and an emotionless husk of a weapon, his mind foggy with electroshock and countless wipes. He’ll be cradling Peter in their cell, whispering ragged assurances to his kid one moment, and the next, he wakes and finds his cock shoved down Peter’s throat, his metal fingers gripped tight in his soft brown hair while his son chokes around his cock.

He’ll cry and apologize and try to pull Peter off, but then Rumlow just has to say the first trigger word, and he’s gone again.

They send him off on his first mission a few days later.

Standing in the middle of a briefing room, Bucky holds still while technicians suit him up, clasping his bulletproof vest shut and rewiring his arm. He floats dazedly in the back of his consciousness, sedated under Rumlow’s thumb but still aware enough to process what’s happening around him.

“Now,” Rumlow says, dusting off Bucky’s shoulders fondly. “Finish the mission and you get your treat. Remember, Soldier?”

Bucky nods numbly.

“And if dear old _Bucky_ is still in there,” Rumlow says with a dangerous gleam in his eyes, and he taps Bucky’s forehead, his lips pulled up in a cruel smirk, “just in case you’re listening and thinking about getting clever, you make sure you come back _quick_.” He pulls his phone out and flips open the screen, showing a video feed to the Soldier. “We’ll be keeping your baby boy nice and warm while Daddy’s off at work.”

Bucky distantly hears himself inhaling sharply, but his arms are leaden at his side, obediently still as he watches the feed. Peter is kneeling on a concrete floor between a faceless soldier’s thighs, blindfolded and his arms bound behind his back as his face is held down on the man’s cock. As grainy as the video feed is, Bucky can hear his son coughing and gurgling around the stranger, and he tries not to think what it means that his own cock throbs in his pants at the sight. “Peter,” he says dumbly, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“That’s right,” Rumlow coos proudly, like Bucky’s a child who’s read his first word. “That’s your Petey. And if Daddy dearest decides to call up his old Avengers pals, he won’t get his Petey back.” On cue, the barrel of a gun enters the frame, the muzzle of it stroking lovingly up and down Peter’s cheek and the boy sobs around the cock stuffed down his throat. The stranger’s hand in his hair keeps Peter in place when he tries to flinch away from the tip of the gun pressing threateningly against his temple.

A muted feeling of anger and fear spikes deep inside of him when the stranger thrusts harshly, pressing in balls deep inside Peter’s mouth, gagging him. The whine Peter makes is almost enough to give Bucky the strength to clench his fists through the heaviness clinging to his bones from Rumlow’s manipulation, but he doesn’t. The soldier holds still, his eyes obediently drawn to the little screen as Peter’s face is harshly fucked, a gun dangerously pressed to the side of his face.

“I don’t want to take your toy away, Soldier,” Rumlow whispers to him sincerely. “We _all_ enjoy playing with him. And I know you do, too.” He runs his other hand up the soldier’s thick thigh, ghosting over his crotch and gently squeezing the bulge forming there. He hears a breathy gasp and it takes him a minute to realize he’s the one who made it. “And something tells me you don’t want me to, either.”

“No, Sir,” is all he has the strength to say.

“Good.” Rumlow steps back, patting him on the chest like a rider dismounting a horse. “STRIKE’s taking you on this mission, but the boys and I will take care of your baby while you’re gone. Don’t keep us waiting too long, Soldier.”

He feels himself nod. His mind is screaming, but what comes out is a levelled, “Yes, Sir.”

…

Peter doesn’t know how long Bucky’s been gone.

It feels like days, but it could have been a week by now. He thinks his captors have a rotation set up so that he’s never alone for long, but he doesn’t know if that’s to keep him from trying to escape or just to mess with him.

Probably just to mess with him. Rumlow seems like the type. After his dad left for whatever mission they sent him on, the man made it his new mission to force Peter to submit to him, trying to get him to give himself up willingly without needing to be restrained or his mouth spread open.

So far, Peter’s refused, fighting the men every step of the way until their frustrations overwhelm them and they hold him down anyway. He’s tried to fight, tried to resist them as best he can, but the collar keeps him weak and helpless, just like Rumlow wants.

On the first day Bucky left, Rumlow had come into his cell and unchained him, then stood in the middle of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down at Peter with a cold, firm look in his eyes that made Peter shiver.

“Come here, boy,” he had said.

Peter had stayed huddled against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest, glaring defiantly. This man was the one responsible for everything. Ben and May’s deaths, his torture, his dad’s torture, the things his dad had done to him - all of it. He refused to crawl to him like a dog on command. He didn’t care how much they beat him up.

But as soon as he had that thought, Rumlow became impatient and clicked a button on the little remote he had behind his back, sending waves of excruciating electricity shooting through Peter’s small body. He cried out loudly at the pain as it shot down his spine and directly into his skull, curling up tighter on the cold floor and shaking wildly for several minutes until it stopped.

“Come here,” Rumlow said again.

Gritting his teeth, Peter pulled himself up onto his hands and knees, still trembling, and dragged himself to where Rumlow stood. He kneeled in front of him with his head down, too ashamed to look up at him, hot tears running down his cheeks from the pain still searing his entire body.

“Look at me.”

He only let himself disobey for a moment before he looked up, glaring hatefully at Rumlow through his tears. Rumlow had regarded him for a long moment, then nodded and said, “Good boy. Now, take out my cock.”

Peter had flinched, shocked even though he’d suspected that that was what the man was going to say. He shook his head, scooting back slightly on his knees and eyed the man’s crotch warily. “N-no.”

“I didn’t ask you a question,” Rumlow had said, coldly. “Come here and take out my cock. Now.”

“No!” Peter said, surprising himself by how vicious and firm his voice sounded. It was bad enough when the men gagged his mouth open, or held a gun to his head to force him, or beat and shocked him until he obeyed. He hated himself for all of that, but he could live with it. But doing something like that for someone like Rumlow, _willingly?_ Never. Even if Rumlow shocked him until his brain turned to mush, he would never give in. He refused to give him that satisfaction.

“You’re stubborn, just like your father,” Rumlow had said, and he actually smiled a little as he did. “But let’s see if you’re any smarter. I’ll give you one more chance. Come here and take out my cock.”

“No.”

Rumlow stared at him for a moment, but he didn’t seem surprised in the least. They stared at each other, and then he nodded, pulled Peter back against the wall and re-chained him up. Peter struggled when the man pressed an open-mouth gag between his lips, but a harsh punch to the side of his head made everything go hazy for several minutes and allowed Rumlow enough time to force himself inside the gag and roughly fuck his throat.

Peter whined as his mouth was abused, especially when he was held down all the way, the head of Rumlow’s cock rubbing painfully inside his throat and smearing it with a bitter taste. Rumlow fucked him hard and fast, grunting and yanking on his hair brutally until he finally came, pulling back slightly so that he spilled inside Peter’s mouth instead of down his throat, so his tongue was coated with his thick, warm come.

Peter whined and sobbed as Rumlow unlatched the gag and pulled it out. The man was still slightly out of breath as he petted his hair gently, then patted his cheek before tucking himself back inside his pants and ominously said, “You’ll learn.” He turned to leave, but stopped and added, “You might want to save some of that for later.”

Peter glared, keeping their gazes locked together as he leaned forward and spat the rest of his come out onto the floor. Rumlow had merely smirked, a sight that made Peter’s skin go cold, and left.

He couldn’t do anything but wait for them to bring his dad back. Other men came to torment him often, every hour as far as Peter could tell. They didn’t try to coerce him into submission the way Rumlow had; they just beat and used him, mocking him as they did and delighting in his helplessness.

No food or water was brought to him that first day. Peter figured it was his punishment for disobeying Rumlow the way he had. On what Peter assumed was the second day, they brought him bread - old and stale - but not water. He had eaten the food hungrily but his mouth and throat felt horribly dry afterwards and left him slumped against the wall, desperately trying to ignore his thirst.

Rumlow had come to him hours later, after several men had already had their way with him. He regarded Peter for a short time, then repeated the events of the previous day, untying Peter and standing in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back. Peter had glared at him warily, but it didn’t seem to affect him anymore than it did yesterday.

“Come here,” Rumlow had said. Once again Peter had refused, and once again, Rumlow shocked him excruciatingly until he obeyed, crawling over to the middle of the room and kneeling in front of him. Peter glared up at him, already knowing what the man was going to say, unsurprised when they locked eyes and Rumlow said, “Take out my cock.”

And once again, Peter said, “No.”

Rumlow was harsher with him that time. His gagged-open mouth was full of the taste of blood and precome after Rumlow had savagely punched him in the jaw before forcing himself between his forcibly-spread lips. Peter had sobbed and cried, but not just from the pain– he was humiliated that the wetness from the man’s cock was actually soothing his aching dry mouth and throat, and he was horribly ashamed to realize his throat was actually constricting around the man’s cock, trying to swallow the slick substance as it leaked from the tip of his cock and coated his mouth.

But Rumlow pulled out at the last second and gripped himself around the base, fisting himself until he came in front of Peter on the cold cement floor. Peter stared at the puddle of cooling come before looking at Rumlow in confusion. The man had merely smirked, took out his gag, and said, “In case you get thirsty,” before he left.


	6. Chapter 6

Every day since his dad had left, Peter has only been given dry bread to eat, and the promise of water only comes with the condition that he willingly and obediently suck Rumlow off first.

He’s refused every time, but it’s only gotten harder with each passing day. Peter doesn’t know how much of his mutation is still working with the collar on him, but he suspects it’s the only thing keeping him from dying of dehydration at this point.

Even still, he won’t give in. It breaks his heart to think of his dad returning from wherever he is and finding him dead, but he’s too dehydrated to even shed a tear about it.

When Rumlow opens the door to his cell, Peter doesn’t have the energy to look up at him. The man locks them in and then comes and undoes his chains, clicking his tongue at him disapprovingly. “You didn’t eat your bread. Is somebody not feeling well?”

He pets his hair condescendingly, but Peter still doesn’t have the energy to even open his eyes, until he hears a familiar  _ pop _ sound and Rumlow says, “Would you like some water?”

Somehow, he finds the strength to open his eyes and look up at him. Rumlow is crouching in front of him, a green army canteen in his hands, the top of it opened and offering the water he so badly needs. It takes him a second of struggle, but he manages to push himself up until he’s sitting, reaching for the canteen with desperate hands.

Rumlow smiles at him, stands up, and walks to the middle of the room. “Come here.”

If he had the energy to cry, he would. Instead, Peter takes a deep breath, flinching as the cool air touches his dry, cracked lips, mouth and throat, and crawls until he’s kneeling in front of Rumlow’s legs, obediently.

He doesn’t want to give in. He wants to fight. He wants to be strong and brave, like his dad. But he can hear the water sloshing inside the bottle as Rumlow lifts it, and it makes his limbs shake, the thirst so powerful his vision has started blurring at the edges.

Rumlow smiles down at him. “Take out my cock.”

This time, Peter doesn’t say no. He stares at the man pleadingly, a silent beg, then looks straight ahead at his crotch like it’s a ticking bomb. Swallowing is an agonizing feat with his dry throat, but he does it anyway, then lifts his shaking, trembling hands, and pulls open the front of the man’s pants, too thirsty to even hate himself.

The man’s cock is already half hard when he pulls it free. Peter sits still obediently, staring at it with wide frightened eyes, then looks up at Rumlow, at the canteen imploringly. Rumlow’s smile widens, and he pets his hair like a dog and says, “Ask me for permission to suck my cock. And ask nicely.”

Peter doesn’t move. He looks between Rumlow’s face, the canteen of water, and the man’s steadily hardening cock with increasingly desperate, begging eyes. He doesn’t want to give in. But his entire body is on fire, so desperate for even a sip of water, it’s clouding his judgement completely.

He places his hands on the man’s hips to steady himself. He hasn’t been upright for this long in days, and it’s making him way too dizzy. He clings to him and tries to fight the urge to give in, but then Rumlow lifts the canteen even higher, gazing down at Peter coldly as he tips his head back and starts drinking from it greedily.

Peter whines. His hands tighten on the man’s hips, leaning closer in spite of himself. He wants it  _ so bad. _ Somehow his mouth is watering, even though he didn’t think he had enough moisture left to salivate. He needs it. He watches, transfixed, as the water streams messily from Rumlow’s lips, dripping down his chin and the hard material of his uniform and underneath it. Peter starts to shake as he watches it run down the man’s chest.

And then the water is leaking from the bottom of the man’s shirt, where Peter opened his pants, running down his toned abdomen and into his crotch in a light stream. Peter doesn’t even mean to do it. He just leans forward before he can stop himself and laps at the stream of water running underneath the man’s belly button desperately, his tongue laving over the man’s skin, almost worshipfully. He feels Rumlow’s cock twitch against his throat, but is too preoccupied with the relief of  _ finally _ having water to care.

Rumlow’s hand pets his hair, letting him lick and suck the water off his stomach, navel and crotch as he continues to drink. Peter’s almost too grateful to even feel ashamed. The water coating the inside of his painfully dry mouth and soothing the ache in his throat and stomach feels so good, his eyes well up with tears he didn’t know he still had.

With a pop, Rumlow pulls the canteen away from his mouth, breathing deeply from chugging all that water and grins down at Peter cruelly. “Thirsty boy,” he chastises, carding his fingers through his hair as Peter continues sucking every last drop off his skin. He fists his hand in his hair and pulls Peter back, grinning wider at the miserable, pleading whine Peter makes when he’s forced to stop licking at his skin.

“Would you like some?” Rumlow asks again, gesturing to the canteen, and this time, Peter nods eagerly. His stomach feels like it’s being ripped apart. He doesn’t even care anymore. He  _ needs _ water.

“Ask me nicely,” Rumlow says.

Peter licks his lips, stares at the canteen, shameful tears running down his cheeks. “Please.”

“Please what?” Rumlow pets his head and pulls it closer to his cock, until the head is twitching against his lips. “You can have the rest of this when you’re done.”

“Please,” Peter says, hands tightening on Rumlow’s hips. “Please… can I-- can I please-- uhm…”

“What do you want?” Rumlow asks patiently, like he’s teaching a child. It’s the voice he uses with Bucky, Peter recognizes distantly. “Do you want to suck my cock? Want to suck the warm cum right out of it and drink up every last drop?”

Tears overflow from his eyes in heavy, wide streams. “Yes. Please.”

“Ask for it. I won’t tell you again.”

“Please let me-- let me suck your cock. Please let me drink your cum. I w-- I want it. Please.”

Moaning, Rumlow rocks against Peter’s face, his hand like a vice in his hair. “God, you beg so  _ pretty, _ ” he hisses. “Again.”

“Please let me suck your cock,” Peter says, softer now. “Please, I wanna drink your cum.”

Rumlow let’s go of his hair and takes half a step back. His cock bobs in the air, red and glistening, and the way it shines with wetness actually makes Peter’s throat constrict wantingly, to his total humiliation. Rumlow smiles at him, but doesn’t touch him. “Okay, since you asked so nicely. Come on, boy. Come get your treat.”

His breath hitching painfully in his dry throat, Peter shuffles forward, blinking past the dizziness that swallows at the edges of his vision and he braces himself against Rumlow’s muscled thighs, staring at the heavy cock in front of him. He can feel a sob fighting its way up his chest, and he tamps it down and sucks the tip of Rumlow’s cock into his mouth.

Precum leaks salty and acrid from the slit, but the relief of  _ something _ wet in his mouth crashes over any remaining reservations Peter has. He suckles at Rumlow’s cockhead, sighing through his nose as the man groans and another dribble washes soothing and warm over his parched tongue. He sucks greedily at Rumlow like he’s drinking from a fountain, coaxing more precum out even when the salty taste burns down his throat, shameful and bitter.

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Rumlow says, petting his fingers through Peter’s hair and rocking his hips forward, gently coaxing more of his cock into his mouth.

Peter whines as his thick length slides over his tongue but obediently takes him in further, gagging weakly when he hits the back of his throat. It’s harder to suck at the dry length of him with what little saliva Peter has left, and he lets out a frustrated noise, pulling himself upright. Thinking only of the reward that waits for him at the end of his ordeal, Peter wraps his hand around the base of Rumlow and holds his cock still so he can swallow him down, laving his tongue along the underside of him and getting him as wet as he can.

“Is it too dry, boy?” Rumlow asks sympathetically, his fingers scratching at Peter’s scalp.

Mortified, Peter blinks up at him and nods, his cracked lips still stretched painfully around the width of him.

“Here, open your mouth,” Rumlow says kindly, his other hand resting on the canteen at his hip.

His heart leaping in his chest, Peter sits back and opens his mouth, Rumlow’s cock smearing wet against his cheek as he stares up at him hopefully.

Rumlow grins down at him and makes a big show of swilling his tongue around in his mouth - Peter realizes what he’s doing too late, and Rumlow spits in Peter’s open mouth.

Burning with humiliation, Peter lowers his gaze and tries not to think about how he wants nothing more than to swallow. Fingers shaking, he lets Rumlow’s spit rest on his tongue and wraps his lips back around his hard cock, sinking back down on the length of him.

“ _ Good _ boy,” Rumlow growls, his cock twitching against Peter’s tongue, and fisting his fingers in Peter’s hair, he starts to thrust. His eyes sting with shame, but Peter holds still and lets Rumlow fuck his mouth, grateful for the slick slide of spit that eases the way.

Rumlow is gentler with him though, his thrusts slower and deeper rather than the frenetic pace he usually takes when he has to beat Peter into submission. He keeps stroking his hair and petting his cheeks as he holds him still, then with a grunt that means he’s close, Rumlow grabs the base of Peter’s skull and plants him on his cock. Peter whines as he feels Rumlow’s cock jerking where it’s nestled tight in the back of his throat, and then warm cum bursts soothing like a balm into his mouth.

Groaning pleasurably, Rumlow yanks Peter’s head back and finishes shooting his load over his open lips, grinning when Peter darts his tongue out and laps up his cum without thinking. “Atta boy,” he says with a sigh, patting his head fondly. “Here, I promised, didn’t I?”

Hardly daring to believe it, Peter sits back on his heels and watches as Rumlow takes the canteen from his hip and pops the cap off. He reaches his hands up eagerly but Rumlow cradles the back of his head and tilts Peter’s face back, and presses the opening of the canteen against his lips.

Too relieved to care, Peter lets Rumlow feed him his water like a pet, tipping his head back and drinking down the water gratefully. It’s cool and clean, washing over his abused tongue and throat, and he feels his eyes stinging with tears again as he greedily drinks it down. Rumlow tips the canteen back for him - there must have only been less than a quarter of the bottle left - but Peter sucks at every drop until Rumlow upends the canteen and no more comes out.

Peter whines when there’s nothing left, but Rumlow laughs and pets his head. “So cute,” he says to himself.

He takes the canteen back and tucks his cock away, then crouches in front of Peter like he’s talking to a child. “Good boy,” he says, his eyes warm as he strokes Peter’s cheek. He leads Peter back to the corner of the room and chains him up again, but his hands are gentle, almost loving. He pets Peter’s hair again, then turns and leaves, locking the cell door behind him as he goes.

Huddled up in the corner of the room, Peter stares at the locked door numbly, and he hates that he feels lonely now.

…

Rumlow treats him different after that.

Every day, his teammates come to use Peter, like they usually do - but they stop bringing bread with them, and they seem to treat him even more violently than they did before. Peter often gets harsh beatings when he’s visited now, before he’s manhandled onto his back, or stomach, or into someone’s lap.

Rumlow doesn’t visit with the other men anymore. He comes by later, once his entire team has already had their turn with him, and he’s always by himself.

But he brings food and water when he visits, now. It’s the only time Peter gets to eat and drink, and it’s not just bread anymore. Rumlow brings soup, and sometimes fruit, and other foods that are light on his empty stomach but also offer some hydration.

He always asks Peter to touch him, first. Peter hates himself for giving in, but he never, ever wants to be that thirsty again. The memory of it makes his whole body tremble. He hates how powerless he is, but after giving in that first time, somehow, it’s easier.

And Rumlow is gentle with him, now. He pets Peter’s hair as he stands in the middle of their cell, softly muttering, “Good, Pete, there’s my good boy,” as Peter suckles at the head of his cock. “You’re gonna get my cum, baby. Gonna fill your cute little mouth up with your favorite treat.”

Peter whines as a thick glob of precum spills onto his tongue, but sucks it down gratefully. He hasn’t had food or water since Rumlow visited yesterday, like usual, and he can smell the hot soup sitting by the door and hears the water sloshing in the canteen at Rumlow’s hip.

He takes a deep breath through his nose and sinks down on the man’s cock, sucking with his mouth and throat and feeling--  _ weird _ when Rumlow throws his head back and moans, loudly.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Rumlow hisses, his hands tight in Peter’s hair. Peter whimpers, but the man starts thrusting harder and faster, so he knows he isn’t mad. “Such a good boy. You’re my good boy, aren’t you Pete? All mine.”

He can’t reply, except to whine, but Rumlow doesn’t seem to mind. He groans roughly as he cums inside his mouth, spilling rope after rope down his throat.

Swallowing is a reflex at this point. Peter milks the cum from his sputtering dick like he’s drinking from a bottle, until it starts to soften and Rumlow pulls it from his lips with a loud, tight pop.

Gasping for breath, Peter gazes up at him hopefully as Rumlow unhooks his canteen from his belt and presses it to his lips. Tears start falling from his eyes when the cool, clean water runs down his throat, and Rumlow shushes him and pets his hair, lovingly.

“C’mere baby, let’s get some food in you, hm?”

Rumlow grabs the hot bowl of soup by the door and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning Peter over to him. Peter can’t remember how many days ago he started feeding him by hand, but he can’t really bring himself to care. He’s just grateful it’s not stale bread designed to dehydrate him.

He crawls between the man’s legs and rests against his knee, sitting sideways in his lap. He feels small, like this, like a child being fed by their parent, but he still opens his mouth obediently when Rumlow lifts the first spoonful to his lips.

“Slowly, baby. You’ll hurt your tummy if you eat too fast.”

Peter eats slower from the next spoonful, slurping from the spoon carefully instead of swallowing the whole thing down at once. Rumlow beams at him proudly, stroking his free hand up and down his back.

“Look how far you’ve come, sweetheart. Just took a little guidance to make you perfect. I’m so proud of you, I can’t wait to show off how beautiful and special you are. Everyone’s going to be so jealous of how good  _ my _ boy is.”

He puts the empty bowl down and leans in, kissing Peter’s temple, cheek and jaw. Peter’s breath hitches, and he shifts and tries to pull away, stopped by the man’s arm around his back.

Rumlow pulls back and eyes him, closely, then breaks into a soft, understanding smile and gently coos, “Oh, baby,” his hand reaching down and softly stroking his thigh, “did I get your little baby cock all hard?”

Peter flinches as a rough hand slips between his legs, squeezing at him over his scrubs. He squirms again, but Rumlow's arm around him tightens in warning. He watches with a sort of helpless despair as Rumlow pushes his hand down the front of his scrubs, whining and lowering his face in shame as his hips twitch helplessly into his palm. He hates that his body is reacting to Rumlow at all, but it feels  _ good, _ drinking up his praise and his physical attention.

“Shh, shh,  _ c’mere _ ,” Rumlow growls, squeezing and rubbing at his cock, kissing his face with rough scrapes of his neatly trimmed stubble. “Poor baby, you miss your Daddy, huh?” He chuckles when Peter lets out a miserable little moan, his precum dripping liberally into Rumlow’s palm. “Yeah, Daddy’s not here to make you feel good. He’ll be back soon baby, don’t worry.” He grabs Peter around the shoulders and maneuvers his thigh between Peter’s, wrenching them apart and presses a thick finger into his abused hole. “Aww, you’re all wet,” he coos.

Shuddering and hiccuping, Peter buries his face in Rumlow’s chest as he’s fingered open, the STRIKE team’s cum slipping sticky between his thighs. He clamps his legs tight around where Rumlow’s pinning him open, hiding his face in shame as he ruts against Rumlow’s muscled forearm and biting back his groans.

“Such a wet li’l cunt,” Rumlow tuts, his fingers pressing deep into his walls and building a dull thrum of pleasure up his cock. “It’s okay Pete, Daddy’s comin’ home soon. Gonna be so nice to have your Daddy’s cock back in this tight hole where it belongs, hm?” Peter gasps and grinds down against Rumlow’s fingers, and he cums with a little sob.

Unfazed, Rumlow pets him through his orgasm and pulls his hand free, holding his cum-slick fingers up to Peter’s mouth. “Go on, clean up your pussy juice,” he says fondly, and Peter obeys without thinking, sucking on Rumlow’s fingers and licking up his own cum mixed with the entire STRIKE team’s. “Such a good boy,” Rumlow tells him. “Can’t wait to show your Daddy how good you’ve been for me. He’s gonna be so proud.”

Peter laps at the space between Rumlow’s fingers, careful to get every last drop up and when he’s done, he blinks up at Rumlow, brown eyes wide and vacant.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for this chapter:** beastiality, noncon, incest, rape as torture, conditioning/Stockholm syndrome, Brock Rumlow being a Big Ole Stinky Cheeseball™

Bucky has never been more glad to return to HYDRA base. His every muscle is tight and tense with anxiety as he gives his mission report, but he answers every question as it’s asked, not daring to act out when he’s so close to Peter.

As always, it’s Rumlow who comes to collect him when he’s done with his briefing. “Hey, Bucky,” he greets him with an easy grin. Bucky grits his teeth.

“My son,” he says stiffly, and the technician cleaning his arm yelps and jumps back, clearly under the impression that his programming had been in place, given Bucky’s quiet cooperation.

“He’s excited to see ya,” Rumlow says in a voice that makes Bucky’s stomach twist in dread. “C’mon.” He waves the techs off and leads Bucky through the compound, back towards his and Peter’s cell. “Now, you’ll wanna be quiet,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper, “don’t wanna spook him. He’s been missing his Daddy, you see.”

Bucky doesn’t say a word back to him, too scared of what he’ll find.

As they reach the hallway where they’ve been kept, he can see that the reinforced door to the cell is swung open, no guards to be seen. For a moment, hope leaps in his chest - perhaps Peter’s escaped again, this time for good and gotten himself far away from this place - but Rumlow’s easy, unbothered expression makes fear crawl up his spine, worse than before.

“Petey,” Rumlow calls in a sing-song voice. He steps into the cell, jerking his head at Bucky to follow. Relief crashes over him once he sees his son - blindfolded and on his knees - but unharmed and _alive_. “G’boy, you ready for your treat? Huh?” Rumlow claps his hands on his thighs, like summoning a dog.

Bucky watches in mute horror as Peter crawls forward, his hands blindly feeling the ground in front of him until he reaches Rumlow’s feet.

“Good boy,” Rumlow praises. He pats the top of Peter’s head, not forcing him, just… touching. “Go on. Come get your treat, boy.”

With a soft noise, Peter pushes himself up on his knees, his hands feeling for the front of Rumlow’s pants and clumsily tugging them open. Nausea rolls in Bucky’s stomach and his jaw clicks shut, watching helplessly with gritted teeth. Rumlow’s half-hard cock bobs free and slaps Peter’s cheek with a wet noise, leaving a shiny spot of precum on his face.

Rumlow’s fingers still tangled in his hair, Peter mouths gracelessly at his cock until he gets the tip of it between his lips, and then he sinks down with a quiet little noise in the back of his throat, suckling and _nursing_ at him.

Bucky’s whole body is numb. “What did you do to him?” he croaks.

Peter makes a muffled noise of shock and tries to pull off, but Rumlow just pushes his head down, gagging him on his cock. Bucky’s metal hand groans as he clenches it into a fist at his side. “Just a bit of housebreaking,” Rumlow says with a sigh, rocking his hips forward in lazy motions as he fucks his kid’s face. “He’s real good, i’n’ he?”

“Get off of him,” Bucky says, blood rushing in his ears. He takes a step forward.

Rumlow glances up at him lazily, but his eyes are sharp as always. “Careful there, _Pops_.” His hand yanks Peter’s face flush against his hips, choking the boy on his cock and Peter’s hands fly up to Rumlow’s thighs as he gurgles wetly around him. “Wouldn’t want an accident here, would we?”

“Let him go!” Bucky shouts, his heart breaking as Peter flinches at the noise, even as he scrabbles helplessly at Rumlow’s thighs, suffocating on his cock. “Get _off_!”

“I’m tryin’, I’m tryin’,” Rumlow laughs, thrusting his hips roughly into Peter’s face, making the boy retch, his small body shaking as he struggles for air.

That’s it. Bucky closes the distance between them and raises his left fist – and then there’s a flash of silver and Rumlow grins at him, the gleaming blade of a hunting knife pressed tight against Peter’s throat as he’s pulled off of Rumlow’s cock.

“ _Soldat_ ,” Rumlow growls in a clear threat, and Bucky lowers his trembling fist, stepping back. He watches with clenched teeth as his son inhales desperately, every ragged breath dragging the delicate skin of his throat against the serrated edge of the hunting knife. “Always a shame, missin’ out on your kid’s big milestones,” he drawls, petting Peter’s head. “Don’t worry, I took good care of your Petey while you were at work. Didn’t I, Pete?” He tugs the blindfold off, throwing it aside.

Peter blinks against the harsh light, squinting at first until he sees Bucky. “Dad,” he calls, his normally high sweet voice cracked with Rumlow’s abuse.

“Please, don’t hurt him anymore,” Bucky implores, never taking his eyes off his kid.

Rumlow gasps as if offended. “Hurt him? Bucky, you’re missin’ the point. Peter _likes_ it, don’t you Petey?” Peter blinks his eyes owlishly up at Rumlow, and as he scratches his fingers through his soft hair, he nods slowly. “Good boy,” Rumlow says with a grin. “Go on, show your Daddy what you learned. What do you do when the nice men come visit?”

Peter looks between Rumlow and Bucky, hesitating. He chews nervously at his lower lip, his face pink with embarrassment. “I… Right now?” he asks Rumlow in a small voice.

“Yes, right now, baby,” Rumlow says patiently, though there’s a dangerous edge in his voice. Peter turns around and kneels, then lays himself down on his chest, his cheek pressed into the filthy cell floor.

“No,” Bucky begs, and Peter blinks up at him, his soft brown eyes wide and… _shy_ , like it’s Bucky who’s intruding on a private moment between him and Rumlow. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Go on, baby,” Rumlow coos, and Peter turns his face away, then reaching behind himself, he tugs the waistband of his scrubs down his thighs, presenting himself to Rumlow. “C’mon, you wanna make Daddy proud, don’t you?” Rumlow coaxes, gently tapping at Peter’s thigh with the tip of his boot.

Peter makes a soft whine but obediently digs his fingers into his cheeks, spreading himself open for Rumlow. Bucky watches, horrified and mesmerized as that delicate pink hole opens up, revealing Peter’s soft insides. His cock throbs in his army pants, and Bucky swallows down the shame and self-hatred.

“Aww, look at that,” Rumlow says, kneeling and sticking a finger in Peter, like he’s nothing more than a hole. “Still wet from earlier, huh, Petey?” As he stretches Peter open wider, what is unmistakably cum leaks out after Rumlow’s finger – a steady dribble of white puddling on the floor, and Bucky _knows_ it’s enough to be more than one man’s. Knows it’s probably the whole STRIKE team’s, if Rumlow’s gloating smile tells anything. “Guess the little bitch is good for somethin’ after all.”

Consequences be damned, Bucky strides forward and smashes his metal fist into the side of Rumlow’s smug face.

…

He wakes up in the chair.

Bucky winces when he opens his eyes, momentarily blinded by the bright lights overhead. He tries to lift his hand to block it out, but he’s strapped in tight, his arms and legs secured like he’s about to be wiped.

That’s not what makes his stomach flip with fear.

What makes his stomach flip is seeing Peter on the floor in front of him, face and chest pressed to the floor, his hips resting over a low-to-the-ground bench. Peter’s head is turned to face him, the boy’s eyes wide and wet and fearful, his arms restrained behind his back and his hips tightly fastened to the bench beneath them, keeping his ass in the air.

“Good morning, Soldier.”

Bucky looks up and remembers what happened when he sees Rumlow’s bruised, slightly-swollen face. Rumlow grins at him through a split lip, but his eyes are cold, absolutely chilling. “It’s about time you woke up. Poor Petey’s legs must be numb by now.”

“Let him go,” Bucky croaks.

Rumlow clicks his tongue at him disapprovingly and steps beside Peter’s face, nuzzling the back of his head with the toe of his boot. “You’re the reason he’s here in the first place,” he says.

The smirk Rumlow gives him makes Bucky’s head spin with dread.

“Pete’s a good boy. So responsive to praise and eager to please, like all pups.” Rumlow kneels down beside the boy’s head and pets his hair, condescendingly. Peter whimpers, but tries to lean into the man’s palm, seeking comfort. Bucky realizes dully that his whole body is shaking. “It’s not his fault you decided to go and cause trouble, so I had to get creative thinking up a suitable punishment for you, Soldier. One that wouldn’t be too hard on our boy here.”

He runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, petting him gently. “You seemed _irritated_ when I showed you how well we treated him while you were gone. I figured you’re a little _possessive_ , Soldier, and maybe you don’t like the idea of sharing your toys.” Rumlow grins up at him from the floor. “Luckily, Petey here _loves_ being played with. Don’t you, baby?”

Whimpering again, Peter nods, scraping his cheek against the cold, dirty floor.

“You like it when me and Daddy and the nice men play with you, don’t you? You just love being fucked and used and pumped full of cum like a needy bitch in heat?”

“I-l love it,” Peter says.

Rumlow smiles fondly and gives him another pat. “Yeah, you do. So I had a great idea. You’ll love it, but Daddy won’t. But that’s okay. After all, it’s _his_ punishment.” He stands and wipes his pants clean, then gives Bucky another cold smile before he whistles, loud and sharp.

Bucky expects the STRIKE team to come in, a repeat of the worst day of his entire life. But it’s not a team of men that come through the door, it’s one– and he’s not alone. Bucky’s eyes go wide as saucers before he’s turning to Rumlow and _begging_. “No, god no, please don’t, _don’t_ , anything, anything but that–”

Peter tries to turn his head to see what’s behind him, but he’s secured to the bench too tightly. He can’t move. Above him, Rumlow stares at Bucky coldly and says, “Like I said, Soldier– _you’re_ the reason he’s here.”

“Don’t!” Bucky screams, and Peter jerks against the bench, clearly terrified now. “I _get it_ , I won’t do it again, just please no, not this, _not this_ \- ”

“Dad?” Peter cries, trying to get a look at whatever’s behind him, until his wrists are rubbed raw from his restraints. “What’s happening?”

“Shh, baby,” Rumlow coos, and Peter shuts up in an instant. “You’re okay. I told you Daddy wouldn’t like it. You’re just gonna have a little playdate, and Daddy’s gonna watch.”

Peter whimpers fearfully and Bucky watches, nausea raging in his stomach, as the other man stops beside him and the massive, black-eyed hound he has on a leash lowers its giant head and sniffs at Peter’s bare backside, curiously. Peter gasps and flinches in his restraints when the hound licks the back of one of his spread thighs, licking up the wetness still coating his skin from Rumlow and the STRIKE team’s abuse.

“Aw, lookit that, Soldier. They like each other already.”

“Please,” Bucky says, his voice completely broken. “I’m - I’m begging you. Please, please don’t.”

Rumlow looks up at fixes him with a cold stare. Then he gives a short, blunt whistle, and the dog’s head snaps up to attention. “Come on, boy. Up.”

“ _No_!”

Bucky struggles against the chair’s hold as the dog obediently mounts Peter from behind, its front paws on the floor around his waist and locking them together over the bench. Peter cries out loudly and begins to sob, kicking as desperately as he can until Rumlow gives him a sharp, icy, “ _Still_ ,” that makes him devolve into a fit of trembles.

The other man kneels behind them and reaches between the dog’s legs. “He’s already excited,” he remarks, grinning crookedly up at Rumlow. “He’s having trouble finding the hole, though.”

“We’ve all been there, buddy,” Rumlow jokes. Then he nods to the guy, “Help him out. Just until it’s in.”

A cold wash of terror and agony falls over Bucky at the sound Peter makes when the man presses the head of the dog’s cock against his hole. The dog scrambles for a moment to adjust its footing, but then it’s _thrusting_ , hard and fast like a machine, punching little choked-out gasps from Peter’s mouth like he can’t breathe.

“How’s that, baby?” Rumlow asks in that patronizingly gentle voice of his, “That feel good? He’s the biggest you’ve had so far, and you’re _definitely_ the tightest one _he’s_ had. You two look so cute. I can’t wait to see the pups.”

Peter sobs desperately, every choked sound and groan of pain forced out of him by the animal’s brutal thrusts. “Please,” he begs, and Bucky’s heart rips in two when Peter forces his big brown eyes open and looks up at him, begging. “Dad, pl-please, m– make - make it stop, please, _Dad– dy_ \- ”

Sobbing, Bucky yanks on his restraints as hard as he can, desperately trying to get to his son and make the torture end. But Peter’s eyes widen suddenly, and his mouth falls open in a gasp that then becomes a long, loud cry of pain until he grits his teeth to try and keep himself from screaming.

“ _Oh_ ,” Rumlow says, grinning again. “Is he knotting you, baby?”

Peter turns his head to look up at Rumlow as best he can, straining his neck uncomfortably. “Please,” he begs him, voice high and sweet and desperate, “Please - pl-please– ‘m good, i’ve been a - a good boy.”

“I know, baby, I know. Don’t worry,” Rumlow smiles, his eyes glinting. “He’s gonna give you what you need, just be patient.”

Whining, Peter turns away and buries his face in the floor, defeated.

Tears soak Bucky’s cheeks as he lowers his face. He can’t watch, he doesn’t want to see anymore. Peter’s cries of pain get louder and more desperate, and Bucky screws his eyes shut when Rumlow and the other man laugh.

“Yeah baby, it might hurt a little at first. He’s a big guy - that knot of his is about as wide as a baseball. It’s gonna stretch your pussy real good.”

Closing his eyes is worse than watching. The sound - the horrible, terrible sound of the dog’s thrusts, fast and wet, so much wetter than a human’s– echoes inside his skull, joined by Peter’s sobs and screams, begging for Rumlow to make it stop, Rumlow laughing at him.

His head shoots up when a hand lands on the front of his pants. Bucky looks up and stares at Rumlow, terrified. The man rubs his cock through the front of his pants and Bucky realizes, horrified, that he’s _hard_.

“Look at you, Soldier,” Rumlow says warmly, smiling at him. “Is watching your little bitch get bred making you hard? You jealous that it’s not your cock he’s choking on?”

“Stop,” Bucky sobs.

Ignoring him, Rumlow strokes him through his pants, working his cock to full hardness. Bucky groans and looks away, ashamed and completely mortified, his cock twitching and throbbing in Rumlow’s hand enthusiastically.

Rumlow makes a sound like a sigh of pleasure and leans in, teething at Bucky’s neck as he squeezes the length of his shaft just right. “Told you I’d take care of him,” he whispers in Bucky’s ear, “He’s gettin’ just what he likes, _Bucky_ – split in half on a giant cock and pumped full of cum.”

Bucky lifts his gaze and watches the dog take Peter’s thin shoulder into its mouth, not really biting, just holding him down as it continues thrusting. Bucky whimpers as his cock jumps and Rumlow laughs, pressing down harder, stroking him faster through his pants. His hips start moving on their own, chasing Rumlow’s hand, as mindless and needy as the dog.

“We’ve gotta leave them tied together for awhile after,” Rumlow whispers. “Gotta let him finish spilling his load inside your boy, it’s _a lot_. Little Petey’s probably gonna be tasting it by the end.”

Humiliated and disgusted, Bucky cums with a whine, burying his face in his shoulder so he doesn’t have to see Rumlow’s grin. A gentle kiss is pressed to his temple, just above his ear, and then the man stands and says, “When his knot goes down, bring the next one in.”

…

Peter goes quiet after the third dog. His head lolls lifelessly to the side, turned away from his father in shame, his cheek scraping against the concrete floor with every frantic thrust of whatever dog is mounting him at the time. Bucky almost believes that Peter’s unconscious, whatever small mercy that would be, except for his occasional mewls of pain each time he gets knotted.

Several different men walk in and out, only lingering long enough to watch or to laugh, egging the dogs on - like Peter’s humiliation is a mildly interesting sideshow. Peter doesn’t seem to care though. He doesn’t move when one man nudges his face with the toe of his boot, doesn’t even flinch when one comes to trade out the dogs and spreads him open, laughing raucously as a thin stream of cum oozes from his abused hole.

Rumlow stays throughout it all, of course. He drags unwilling orgasm after orgasm out of Bucky, cooing into his ear and petting him the whole time. And what’s worse, at the end of it all, Bucky hates himself more than he can blame Rumlow for. He hates himself for hoping they take Peter away, that they won’t make him face his son and confront what he let happen to him. 

It must be hours later when Rumlow finally draws his game to an end. He stoops beside Peter’s head, petting his hair and rubbing a comforting hand down his back. “Hey, Petey,” he says in a sickly sweet gentle voice. “You did so good, boy. You want a treat?”

Bucky swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He wants to say something, beg Rumlow to stop - hasn’t his boy been through enough? - but to his shock, Peter perks up, lifting his head to look at Rumlow. He nods wordlessly and Rumlow grins, patting his cheek fondly. Taking himself out of his pants, he sits down on the floor in front of Peter and feeds him his cock, sighing as Peter bobs his head slowly, exhausted as he is.

It doesn’t take too long - Rumlow’s been rock hard the entire day and hasn’t touched himself once. He cums with a grunt, petting Peter’s face, and has to pull the kid off with a pop. He laughs when Peter lets out a whine, his pink tongue darting out to lick up the last of his cum. “Insatiable little thing,” he chides him.

He uncuffs Peter’s arms and frees him from the bench, picking him up in his arms and tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Peter doesn’t fight him, just sags bonelessly in Rumlow’s grip, docile and quiet as they walk out.

Two armed guards follow to escort Bucky back to the cell, their hands tense on their holsters, but Bucky can’t imagine gathering the strength to fight back right now. He’s shattered, and he just wants to close his eyes.

They bring him back to his and Peter’s cell and close the door behind him. The kid’s already inside, curled up in a corner - still naked but for a threadbare blanket Rumlow’s tossed over him. Peter blinks sleepy brown eyes up at Bucky and to his shock, Peter stands up on wobbly legs and totters over to him.

“Pete, sit down,” he says helplessly even as he instinctively wraps his arms around his kid, holding him tight against his chest.

Peter shakes his head and buries his face in Bucky’s neck. He’s shivering. Bucky’s heart breaks and he brings them over to the wall, sinking down against it and gathering Peter up in his arms, holding him in his lap. Peter folds up his lanky limbs and nestles himself against Bucky, almost burrowing into the blankets. He looks so small like this.

“Dad,” Peter says in a quiet voice, peeking up at him with his big wide eyes.

Bucky tries to paste on a smile, but it feels strained. “Yeah, kiddo?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Peter whispers, curling his fingers in the collar of Bucky’s shirt. _That_ hurts. Bucky takes in a ragged inhale, tears stinging at his eyes when he didn’t think he could cry anymore.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he just clutches Peter tighter and hopes that he understands. Peter seems to get it, because he just smiles and leans up, pressing his soft lips to Bucky’s cheek before settling back in his blanket.

Bucky drifts off sometime after that, though it’s a fitful sleep with his head cricked to the side, nothing but hard concrete against his back. When he wakes up, he’s on the cold floor on his side, and Peter’s still curled up in his arms. What stirs him though isn’t the uncomfortable position, but it’s Peter.

He can’t tell if Peter’s awake - all he can see is the top of his fluffy head sticking out from his cocoon of blanket burrowed against Bucky’s chest. But Peter’s making soft noises, little gasps and whimpers, and at first Bucky thinks he’s having a nightmare - until he realizes that Peter’s hips are shifting rhythmically against his thigh in slow, stuttered motions.

Now that he’s noticed, he can feel the faint outline of Peter’s little cock against his thigh, and _fuck_ , it shouldn’t turn him on that he can tell how small Peter is through the thin blanket. His fingers tighten around Peter’s shoulders and he bites down on his lip, his own cock jumping when Peter lets out a desperate little moan, his pathetic thrusting speeding up just a bit.

Peter’s shuddering in his arms, soft and vulnerable. “Dad,” he whines softly, rolling his hips feebly against the muscle of his thigh. “Dad, please–” and he lifts his head, his eyes meeting Bucky’s.

He should feel ashamed, or disgusted with himself, even sheepish for having been caught. But Bucky doesn’t feel any of that. He lifts Peter’s face and kisses his forehead, brushing his sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. Peter’s hips stutter against his and he mewls, and Bucky slides his metal hand between them, pushing the threadbare blanket aside and wrapping his fingers around Peter’s little cock. “Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmurs against the top of Peter’s head, and it only takes two gentle strokes before Peter’s spasming in his arms and cumming with a muffled gasp.

“Dad, Dad,” he chants breathlessly, skinny fingers scrabbling at Bucky’s chest.

“I got you,” Bucky says again, stroking him through it and continuing to pepper soft kisses against the top of his head. “I got you, Pete. You’re okay.”

Peter’s breathing evens out and he buries his face in Bucky’s chest again, quiet and still as he falls back asleep.

When Bucky’s sure he won’t wake up, he reaches down the front of his scrubs and wraps his hand around himself, his fingers still sticky with his son’s cum.


	8. Chapter 8

For Peter’s sake, Bucky’s on his best behavior for weeks after that.

He spends most of that time as the Soldier, but in the few, brief moments of lucidity he gets, he’s placid and detached, wordlessly following Rumlow’s orders when he’s around, cradling and comforting his son when he’s not.

But in the quiet moments in between, when Rumlow is satisfied or Peter is slumped and unconscious in his arms, and Bucky has nothing to do but confront his thoughts, he can only think about one thing: no matter the cost, no matter the consequences, he _has to_ save Peter from this place, or die trying.

And if he fails, and Rumlow catches them...then he has to make sure he never gets his hands on his son again.

_Even if that means -_

Bucky closes his wet eyes and presses his cheek against his son’s head, still asleep in his lap. He thinks it must be the norm now, even when he’s not in his own mindset. He doesn’t know if the Soldier allows Peter to crawl into his lap like this, but considering how often Peter does for him, he figures the boy must at least try.

He feels the darkness creeping in all around him. He’s running out of time, he knows that. Already, he has thoughts and urges he shouldn’t - feels thrills and anticipation at the worst possible moments. Just like Rumlow wants him to. He’s come back to himself more than once grinding his own hard cock against his son’s backside, Peter moaning and rocking into him, like it isn’t the worst thing Bucky’s ever done.

Already, when he first opens his eyes and finds himself strapped into the chair, his arms and legs bound, Rumlow grinning down at him - for that first split second, it isn’t fear he feels, or even hatred - it’s _excitement,_ feeling the brush of cool air against his cock, his pants open and pulled slightly down his hips, Peter nestled between his legs and mouthing at him like he’s starving for his come.

He’s running out of time, because each time it happens, the excitement lasts longer and the fear and hate and disgust are slower to return to him. He’s worried that, before he knows it, he won’t hate it at all when Rumlow sets his own son on him; he’ll be like Peter, broken and completely grateful for it.

His opportunity comes when they’re preparing him for a mission. He has a new handler. That’s their first mistake. Bucky’s only seen this man - Clanton - in passing. He leads another field team, but Bucky can’t remember working with him (although given his memory’s spotty track record, that doesn’t say too much).

Clanton’s a burly, intimidating man - confident and sneering, not as afraid of the Soldier as he maybe ought to be. That’s their second mistake.

Bucky stands still, holds his arms out as the technicians suit him up. He stays quiet, clocks the loose strap at the butt of Clanton’s handgun where it hasn’t been buckled into his belt. The technicians step back and Clanton gives him a cursory glance. His eyes skim unseeing over the curl of Bucky’s palm, missing the slice of metal tucked hidden between his fingers.

Third mistake.

Clanton turns around to go, and Bucky lunges and grabs his handler around the neck. Clanton makes an aborted yell that dies in his throat as Bucky digs the metal over his carotid artery. Impassive with mission-focus, Bucky grabs the handgun out of his belt before shoving Clanton’s gurgling body to the floor.

He turns around and fires a bullet at the first technician, and sees the other one frantically punching the panic button - he shoots that one twice between the eyes.

He’s on a countdown now. As soon as Bucky steps outside the corridor, the hallway is flooded in strobing red lights and he hears the heavy thump of booted feet chasing down after him.

He runs back through the winding corridors to his and Peter’s cell door and steps back, firing the handgun at the lock until the electric panel pops and fizzles, spraying sparks as the alarm inside whirs uselessly. Impatient, he rips the door open the rest of the way with his metal arm.

The cell sits lonely and empty inside though, and panic crawls up Bucky’s throat as footsteps close in around the mouth of the hallway. He has to get Peter and escape, or this is it.

He turns and meets the HYDRA squad around the corner, and he uses every bit of the rage and grief inside him to tear the men apart.

He’s ruthless and methodical in a way he doesn’t want to dwell on, crushing skulls into walls, slashing and shooting with impunity. He’s not the Soldier right now, but the men’s screaming and yells of pain still don’t make him wince. All he can think about is Peter’s high cries and the abuse his boy’s been through at these men’s hands, and he grabs one HYDRA goon by the throat, squeezing his trachea and slamming him up against the wall.

“Rumlow,” he grits, and the man just gives a wet gurgle, pointing towards the east wing.

Bucky puts a bullet in his brain as thanks.

He races through the base, hoping he’s not too late, hoping that Peter’s still alive.

He finds them in the first operating room they’d been taken to - the large room where he’d--where Rumlow had hurt Peter for the first time. He bursts through the double doors, and immediately raises the handgun, fully intent on seeing Rumlow dead then and there.

“Put the gun down,” Rumlow says from his seat in the center of the room, sounding almost _bored_.

He's lounging in one of the technicians’ chairs, arm slung lazily over the back of the seat while his other hand cards its fingers through Peter’s hair. Peter is kneeling between Rumlow’s knees, his head pillowed on Rumlow’s thigh, completely unperturbed as the barrel of a K-38 revolver presses against his temple.

Bucky feels his heart beating all the way up in his throat. He loosens his grip and lets the stolen handgun clatter to the floor.

“Good,” Rumlow praises, his voice low. “You know, you’re doing a piss-poor job of raising your boy. Pete here just wants his pops to be there for him, and what’re you doing? Fuckin’ around trying to cause a riot?”

“Let us go,” Bucky grits out, his fists clenched at his side.

Peter looks up for the first time when he speaks, hazy brown eyes blinking slowly as he takes in his father’s voice. He gives Bucky a sleepy, weary sort of smile, and Bucky’s chest seizes tight with sick despair. “Daddy…”

“Your Daddy’s been bad again, Pete,” Rumlow sighs dramatically. The small smile falls off Peter’s face and Bucky’s stomach rolls with nausea. “What happens when Daddy is bad?”

Peter’s slender throat bobs as he swallows. He turns away from Bucky, back to Rumlow’s thigh, where he cowers his head like a guilty dog. “P...punishment.”

“That’s right,” Rumlow coos, petting him. He doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky, the look in them cold and hard. All Bucky can think of is the dogs again, and it makes him want to tear his own skin from his body. “But I think we should play a game instead. C’mere, Soldier.”

His jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. Bucky approaches slowly, cautiously, until Rumlow holds up a hand to stop him, when he’s only a few steps away. The sadistic look on the man’s face is enough to trample the righteous anger Bucky’s been using to propel himself forward.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” Rumlow says, light and casual, brandishing his gun like it’s a harmless utensil. “We’re gonna play a game of Russian Roulette.” He holds up the revolver for Bucky to see, whose roiling stomach freezes to a block of ice and plummets to the ground. “Six chambers, one bullet. I’m going to ask you five questions.”

He motions to the space between them with the barrel of the gun.

“You answer a question honestly, you take a step forward. Five questions, five steps. If you answer all five correctly, you’ll reach us, and then you’ll get to take Petey-pie back to your cell, punishment over.” Rumlow’s eyes darken like the dead of night. Bucky’s knees begin to tremble. “Get a question _wrong,_ however…”

He grabs Peter by the hair and yanks his head back, then pops the barrel of his gun into the boy’s open mouth. Bucky jerks forward on instinct, but stops and steps away when Rumlow places his finger on the trigger, threatening.

“We both know the answers to the questions I’m gonna ask, Bucky. If you lie, I’ll shoot him. If you take more than one step, I’ll shoot him. If you try _anything,_ I’ll fucking shoot him, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Bucky grits out, helpless, because it’s the only thing he can do.

Rumlow smiles at his obedience, spins the cylinder of his revolver, and looks down at Peter adoringly. “Then let’s start. Peter, baby, if your Daddy loves you he’s going to play by the rules, and then you can go to bed. While we play, I want you to be a good boy and suck on the barrel of my gun, okay? Show it a good time. Pretend it’s my cock. If you suck it good enough, you’ll get a treat.”

Peter blinks at Rumlow, then closes his lips tightly around the revolver’s shaft and gently starts bobbing his head, his eyes falling shut. Rumlow shifts in his seat, not bothering to hide the fact that his dick’s chubbed up watching Bucky’s son suck his gun like it’s his favorite thing in the whole world.

“Question one,” Rumlow says playfully, reclining fully in his chair and grinning up at Bucky. “Does watching me and the boys have our fun with little Peter make you _jealous?”_

Bucky stares at Rumlow, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. _You fucking…_ He knows what Rumlow wants him to say, but it’s not _true._ He isn’t jealous of them for - he isn’t jealous at all. The anger he feels is natural and normal and healthy. Peter is his _son._ “No.”

The click of the trigger being pulled rings through the room almost as loudly as if the bullet had fired. Bucky’s whole body flinches like he’s been electrocuted, and so does Peter’s, though the kid doesn’t miss a beat bobbing his head up and down and worshipping the barrel of Rumlow’s gun with his mouth.

“Liar,” Rumlow says, his intense expression unreadable. “That’s one. Answer the question _honestly,_ or your baby boy here is going to get another. _Are you jealous of us when we get to fuck your son?_ ”

Bucky stares at the man helplessly. Shame and rage fills him, realizing what the man is really after, here. He wants Peter to hear him confess to - to the things he’s trying so hard to keep at bay. He wants to tear them apart. And he knows Bucky will do it, because having Peter hate and fear him isn’t nearly as bad as watching him die.

Bucky clenches his eyes shut. “...Yes.”

“ _Good,_ ” Rumlow purrs, making a shiver run down Bucky’s spine. “Next question. Do you get hard thinking about him?””

“ _No,_ ” Bucky snaps instinctively, disgusted and enraged, and the sharp, horrible _click_ of the gun firing makes his legs feel weak. “Stop!”

“This is on you Buck, not me,” Rumlow says with a small shrug, pushing the gun deeper into Peter’s mouth. The boy makes a pathetic little gagging sound around the barrel, and his hands tremble against Rumlow’s thighs. “Did you just lie to me again?” he asks, one eyebrow raised, teasingly pressing on the trigger, too gentle to fire it.

Frightened, angry tears well up in his eyes, but Bucky refuses to let them fall. His shoulders sag in shameful defeat. “Yes…”

Rumlow grins, wide and wicked. “That’s it, Soldier. You can take a step.”

Bucky stalks forward, his muscles tense and shaking. He’s never relished the thought of killing anyone. But he’ll enjoy killing Rumlow.

“Have you ever fantasized about fucking your baby boy here?”

Peter whines around the gun in his mouth, but Bucky hardly hears it over the rush in his ears. Nausea geysers up inside him with a vengeance. He can’t afford to tell the man anything except what he wants to hear, he _knows that,_ but he can’t say that, not here, not in front of his son. “N--”

When Rumlow pulls the trigger this time, Peter coughs violently and jerks, but the man grips him tightly by the hair and holds him still, growling out a low, stern, “ _Settle,_ boy,” until Peter resumes his task.

The tears run liberally down Bucky’s cheeks, even heavier than his son’s. That makes three. He can’t…

“You lyin’ to me, Soldier?”

“Yes,” Bucky sobs. His hand is curled so tightly into a fist that he can feel his nails digging bloody indentations into his palm. “Please, don’t…” 

But Rumlow only smiles and says, “Do you want to fuck him right now?”

He balks like he’s been slapped. Bucky’s wide-eyed gaze shifts from Rumlow’s knowing smirk to Peter’s kneeling form between his legs. Fear rivets him in place. If he says yes, is Rumlow going to make him rape his son again? Is that how this twisted game of his ends? “I…”

“That’s a yes or no question, Buck,” Rumlow says coldly, his thumb tracing the shape of the trigger. “Answer me.”

“I don’t - _wait!”_

Rumlow presses the trigger, and the empty, bullet-less _click_ is almost unnoticeable beneath the roaring of his heartbeat in his ears. Oh god. Peter is going to die. Bucky feels his whole body shaking worse than it does even moments before they give him the chair. Between Rumlow’s legs, Peter whimpers through his sobs and continues sucking on the gun, his face pale with terror.

“Soldier.”

Bucky shakily lifts his gaze to Rumlow’s. The man stares back at him, disappointed and harsh, looking every bit the authoritative handler HYDRA made him to be. “I’m not going to give you another second chance. _Do you want to fuck him right now?”_

Bucky opens his mouth, tries to force the word out, then sobs and nods, defeated, whispering in a broken, humiliated voice, “Y - yes. _Yes._ ”

 _It’s just words,_ he tells himself. It doesn’t mean anything. He can explain everything to Peter after, after this nightmare is over and they’re alone, safe in their cell. He’ll make him understand. He _has_ to.

Bucky closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the victorious, shit-eating grin on Rumlow’s face. “Mm, I bet you do,” Rumlow leers at him. “Bet it’s all your scrambled ass has been able to think about since I introduced you to the concept, huh? You really should thank me, Soldier.”

Bucky bares his teeth like a wild animal, but Rumlow couldn’t look less bothered.

“Last question. I have to say, you’re really letting your boy down here, Soldier. You could’ve been honest, could’ve gotten out of your punishment, _and_ could’ve made Petey feel good knowing how much his Daddy wants him, but no. You decided to be a stubborn little liar instead, and now poor little Peter here has a fifty-percent chance of getting a bullet in his head.”

Rumlow shoves the gun down Peter’s throat, pinning Peter to it by the grip on the back of his head. Bucky feels his legs threaten to give out. He has to say yes. Whatever the question is, he _has_ to say yes. No matter how horrible or traumatic, he can’t fuck this up again. The risk is too high.

“Tell us, Bucky. Did it feel good watching Peter get fucked and knotted by all those dogs?”

Bucky’s ears are ringing. Before he realizes it, fresh tears stream down his cheeks, the memory flooding him like an acidic wave. All he can see is Peter on his knees, screaming into the floor as each brutish beast mounts him; the sick, wet squelching of the dogs’ frantic humping is burned into his brain.

“ _Soldier_ ,” Rumlow says impatiently, his trigger finger curling tight.

“Fuck you,” Bucky spits hatefully, the rage and indignation pouring out of him before he can stop himself - he watches Rumlow tighten his finger around the trigger and he lunges forward to pull Peter away. “ _No!”_

Rumlow leans back and kicks him square in the jaw, knocking him to the floor before he can pull Peter to safety. Peter cries out as the gun in his mouth clicks, loud and empty, leaving the room silent as the metallic sound echoes through the lab.

“Five questions, five failures,” Rumlow tuts, his fingers relaxing their tight hold in Peter’s hair. He begins petting the crying boy, shushing him, the gun still lodged firmly down his throat. “Your Daddy really has been bad today, Pete,” he sighs.

Peter whimpers, shaking almost as bad as Bucky is. Rumlow pets him like a dog and slowly eases the long, wide barrel out of his mouth, speaking to him soft and gently.

“But _you’ve_ been my good boy, like always, baby. I think you should still get a treat, don’t you? Just because Daddy doesn’t deserve one doesn’t mean you don’t.”

Peter gives him a slow, unsure nod, seeming to relax a little under Rumlow’s… _loving_ smile.

“You know the rules, sweetheart. You have to beg nicely when you want a treat,” Rumlow says, reclining back in his chair, easy and casual, completely ignoring Bucky’s shaking, sobbing form kneeling on the floor.

“P - please,” Peter says in a small voice, hoarse and abused from the rough treatment, “please, I wa- want a treat.”

“Yeah?” Rumlow grins, egging him on. “You want it, baby? Want me to give you a nice yummy treat right in front of your Daddy?”

A full-bodied shudder runs up Peter’s back, but he nods, willing and eager. “Yes, please, can I have a treat?”

“Okay.” Rumlow smiles, pets the boy’s head, then grips him viciously by the hair again and yanks him forward, once more burying the barrel of the gun down his throat. Bucky doesn’t even have time to lunge or scream as Rumlow meets his terrified gaze and empties the sixth and final chamber into Peter’s mouth.


	9. Chapter 9

The ringing in Bucky’s ears drowns everything else out. He doesn’t hear the metal click of the hammer nor Peter’s wet sobs, nor the bang of the door behind him slamming open and the thump of heavy feet surrounding him on all sides. He stares, numb and hardly daring to believe it as Peter blinks the tears from his eyes and gazes up at Rumlow in confusion, _alive_.

A thick baton cracks the back of Bucky’s skull and he hits the floor. A heavy boot presses between his shoulder blades as his arms are wrenched behind his back, and Peter looks down at him, his dark eyes wide and confused. “Daddy,” he croaks, his voice ruined and lips cracked pink with blood from Rumlow’s abuse.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky gasps, tears sticking his cheek to the cold concrete floor. “Peter, baby, I’m so sorry--”

A gloved hand twists in Peter’s hair and drags the boy to his feet, and Bucky grunts as a hail of boots and batons rain down on him, kicking and subduing him long after his arms are strapped tight behind his back. Clanton, the ill-fated handler whose gun Bucky had stolen, lifts Peter upright. The man sneers and spits on the floor. His saliva lands, thick and metallic with blood on Bucky’s cheek.

“ _This_ keeps the Winter Soldier in line?” Thick gauze stained red is padded over Clanton’s throat where Bucky had slit him open just minutes ago. “What kind of circus sideshow you running here?” Clanton growls at Rumlow, and he shakes Peter a little for emphasis, ignoring the boy as he flinches and reaches up on his tiptoes when his hair is pulled. “Just kill it, it’s making the Soldier soft. Look at him, whining like a fuckin’ dog.” He spits again, and this time it splatters on the floor between Rumlow’s feet. 

Rumlow’s eyes flash, a familiar look usually followed closely by more torture, but Bucky can’t bring himself to care anymore. “Please,” Bucky sobs, his own voice cracked and weakened and barely audible. Rumlow turns his cold eyes onto him.

Crossing his muscled arms over his chest, he gazes down at Bucky, his expression unreadable. He stoops and grabs Bucky by the back of his collar and hauls him upright. “We do things my way, _Lieutenant_ ,” Rumlow says, his voice steely. His eyes flick unimpressed over Clanton’s gashed wound. “How’d the Asset get one up over you anyhow?”

Clanton just grinds his teeth together, his brutish fingers digging purple bruises into Peter’s neck.

Rumlow raises his eyebrows. “Seems you can’t handle the Asset even when he’s gone all soft,” Rumlow says with a cold smile. “Take the kid back to the cell. Alive,” he reminds Clanton with a look, and Bucky’s shoulders sag in relief.

“Don’t hurt him,” Peter cries, even as he’s lifted bodily and thrown over Clanton’s shoulder, pleading with Rumlow as they take him away. “ _Please_ , I’ll be good, don’t hurt him--!”

As he waits for Peter’s screams to die away, Rumlow strokes his fingers up and down Bucky’s scalp, almost like he’s soothing him now that they’re alone.

“See what a little honesty can do?” he asks, taking Bucky by the chin and forcing his eyes up to meet his. Resigned, Bucky stares up at Rumlow, searching his familiar cold gaze, and a conditioned calm settles over his brain, quieting the panic and hatred he’d felt so _clearly_ a moment ago. Rumlow smiles approvingly, petting his cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You don’t have to keep hurtin’ Petey, Soldier.”

Bucky swallows around the tight lump in his throat.

“If you can be good for me, you can make sure you both get treated well. Don’t that sound nice?” Rumlow cups his face in both hands, pulls him close and presses their foreheads together. Bucky lets his eyes slip shut, his breathing slow and even. 

Every awful punishment, every horrible torture that’s been inflicted on Peter, it’s all because he didn’t listen to Rumlow. He lets out an exhale that shudders through his lungs and comes out weepy and helpless, and he leans into Rumlow’s palm, exhausted from fighting.

“There you go,” Rumlow praises. His voice shouldn’t make it easier to surrender, but it does. “You gonna be good for me, _Soldat?”_

He nods once, doesn’t get the chance to do more than that before a rough hand in his hair lifts his face, and Rumlow’s mouth descends on his, hot and hungry and possessive. He doesn’t shudder or shake as he’s pushed onto his back, Rumlow’s heavy body settling on top of him, slotting between his legs. Bucky lets himself be pliant under Rumlow’s bruising hands and doesn’t bother pretending that it’s because his arms are still tied behind his back.

“That’s it, Soldier,” Rumlow groans into his ear, the press of his erection hot against Bucky’s stomach. He doesn’t resist as Rumlow yanks the front of his tactical pants down, a familiar sensation washing over him, urging him to simply _accept_. “That’s it. Being so good for me.”

 _Not for you._ His eyes slip closed as Rumlow’s fingers wrap around his soft, fat cock, his strokes loose, almost loving. _Not for you._ Bucky’s cock gives a half-hearted twitch.

Rumlow noses along his jaw, his breath coming in shorter and faster. He pushes himself up on his elbows and pushes his own trousers down, slipping his stiff cock against Bucky’s. Rumlow grinds them together, swiping the leaking precome at his tip over Bucky’s dick, teases the tip a bit. But still, Bucky remains flaccid, numb to his every sense, his thoughts empty. His tormentor kisses at his throat and caresses him, but when Bucky continues breathing evenly, entirely indifferent, Rumlow makes an offended, almost... _hurt_ scoff when it becomes clear that his efforts aren’t making a difference. “Nothing?” he sighs into Bucky’s ear. The man lifts himself up so he can sneer down at Bucky’s emotionless expression. “Guess my hands don’t feel as good when your son isn’t getting fucked by dogs at the same time, huh?”

Bucky jerks, not enough to even be considered a struggle, but Rumlow responds by ripping his pants down past his knees and spreading Bucky’s legs wide, his fingers digging sharp, dark bruises into his thighs. “Fine,” he spits, his voice cold and sadistic - a sharp, disorienting pivot from his caresses. “Have it your way then, Soldier.”

Bucky forces his body to go lax, resumes his staring contest with the ceiling. He doesn’t let himself block out the sensations of Rumlow on and around and inside of him as he takes, takes, takes.

_For Peter._

…

Bucky loses himself in the chair and wakes up on a jet.

 _Another mission,_ he thinks, not daring to move. His muscles feel stiff and sore, and he realizes, dimly, that he’s surrounded on all sides by agents - obviously the team assigned to whatever mission this is.

He doesn’t remember much between being wiped and arriving here, but he rarely does. He keeps his head facing forward and lets his eyes glance over the men bracketing him with the briefest of movements, so he doesn’t let on that he’s slipped back from the Soldier’s mindset. It’s been happening more and more lately. But that’s not surprising. Rumlow never let him spend this much time out of cryo-freeze before they took Peter.

He doesn’t even get a chance to wonder what the mission is or who’s handling him when Clanton steps in front of his line of sight. The turbulence of the plane provides a believable cover for Bucky to inspect the man more thoroughly, taking in his still-bandaged throat ( _couldn’t have been too long, then, since they sent him away from Peter)_ his thick arms crossed threateningly over his chest, and the bitter, hateful sneer tacked onto his wide face.

Bucky stares back, blank, emotionless. He knows how to play this game. If he doesn’t react, they won’t know it’s him. If they don’t know it’s him, he can stay in his own skin just a little longer. It’s hard, sometimes, holding the Soldier back, eager and restless to answer its masters’ beck and call. But after almost a century of trying, Bucky’s pretty much mastered it, now.

Clanton’s glare deepens. He looks Bucky over like he’s a piece of shit stuck to his shoe, but he’s used to the dehumanizing stares these HYDRA agents give him. They all see him as a weapon, an object. A thing. He knows these people consider him nothing more than a tool - with the exception of Rumlow, who probably sees him more as a _pet_ than anything.

“Can’t believe that shitass Rumlow keeps sticking _me_ with his handler gimmick,” he growls, viscerally angry. Bucky idly wonders if the cut in his throat has anything to do with how guttural his voice is. “Just so _he_ can stay home and keep his dick wet with that whiny little runt you call a _son._ ”

The pinky finger of his left hand twitches. Just the slightest movement, barely even enough to be felt. But Clanton’s sunken eyes darken like an oncoming storm and he grins.

“Though - can’t say he isn’t a bit of fun. I had him the other day too, when Rumlow had me drag him back to his cell. Your son’s a screamer, isn’t he, Soldier? But I guess I don’t need to tell _you_ that.”

 _Don’t move._ Bucky stares at the bridge of Clanton’s nose, between his eyes. Feels the turbulence of the plane beneath his body. Blinks slow, every thirty seconds. _Don’t move._

“You know what I hear, Soldier?” The man leans down slightly, crowding him against the wall. So high on his power-trip, he makes Rumlow seem _laidback._ “I hear the Secretary’s gonna be visiting soon. And when he does - oh, you’d better _believe_ I’m gonna rat Rumlow out for all the shit he’s been slackin’ on, lately. Wouldn’t be surprised if my _loyalty_ earned me Rumlow’s position - and earned _him_ a bullet right in that smug face of his.”

He leans in a little closer, speaking a little quieter. He wants Bucky to hear, but is a fool to say it.

“And that boy of yours, Soldier? When the Secretary sees how broken and worthless he is now, I wouldn’t be surprised if they gave him the same treatment. Bullet between the eyes and thrown into Rumlow’s unmarked grave. Then they could be together forever, just like he wants. And _you,_ well…”

Clanton stands back up, chest puffed out to make his stocky build seem even wider. Bucky can’t help but wonder who the hell he’s trying to impress. “You’ll probably get assigned to _me,_ when they hand me Rumlow’s gig. And then I can finally pay you back for _this._ ” He points a thumb at the bandage collaring his throat, and Bucky almost slips, almost lets the look of confusion dawn on him. If Clanton wanted revenge, why hadn’t he just...done it? What’s stopping him? The only one who has the authority to is Rumlow, but why the hell would he do that?

But Bucky doesn’t slip, doesn’t let the confusion show, and Clanton quickly becomes bored of taunting a brick wall, like they always do, and resumes his post in the handler’s seat. The plane starts to descend, and the men start going over the details of the mission in loud, fervent Russian. The sound pulls at the Soldier, urging it forward through the thick fog clouding Bucky’s mind, but he holds it back. Clenches his fist and subdues it. He can’t slip now. He has to stay clear-headed. He has to stay _himself._

He has to save Peter.

…

The mission is simple. Kill the mark. Bucky isn’t told what the man did to deserve to die - and he doesn’t know if he cares anymore. The Soldier tugs at his consciousness, demands to be let out so it can obey its handler, and it takes everything in Bucky’s arsenal to hold it back.

Expressionless, he hefts a sniper rifle over his shoulder and follows the men into a black panel van, quietly observing the old, white brick buildings they drive by, the bustling of city life muted behind tinted windows and the ever-present Soldier.

Vienna.

Bucky recognizes the city’s ornate monuments, narrow streets and clear blue skyline immediately. He knows these are not his own memories.

The van pulls through a tight alleyway off a side street, and Bucky watches as Clanton wipes clammy palms off on his pants. “With me,” Clanton orders, and Bucky stays close to his handler while the rest of the men speak quietly and urgently over their comms, dispersing out into the serene cobblestone streets. HYDRA’s sick plague, spreading death and hurt a little further.

Bucky thinks of Peter, of Clanton’s threat to have him buried in a shallow grave, and he tamps down the anguish building in his throat. Later. After Peter’s safe -- after -- after all this.

The mark is inside a large government building, and the place is teeming with armed guards and media. It’s easy enough navigating the building’s back hallways and the ancient closed-off architecture, but soon the reason for the swelling crowds becomes apparent enough.

“ _Avengers,_ ” swears one HYDRA agent over the comms.

Sure enough, through the throng of reporters and Austrian police, Bucky catches the blue gleam of Captain America’s shield. His heart seems to jump up and lodge in his throat. It’s a dull, hollow feeling.

Flanking the Captain are two other familiar faces, the winged man and Widow. Bucky breathes slow through his nose, forcing himself to count his breathing. He can feel disassociation prickling at the edges of his senses - the faint ringing in his ears and the dizzy lilt to his vision that means he’s losing himself, giving way for the Soldier to take over for who knows how long.

Bucky doesn’t know when he’s going to get a chance like this again. _Peter_. He lets himself blink for half a second longer - imagines his son’s face. Not… Not Peter how he left him, malnourished, gaunt and lips split bloody with abuse. Bucky imagines Peter how he met him, what feels like several lifetimes ago, a bright-eyed, clever boy. Happy, safe and _his_.

He swallows around the tightening lump in his throat.

Behind him, he can hear Clanton in a heated, muttered argument with whoever’s on the other end of the comm line. “I am _not_ fucking pulling out just ‘cause fucking _Captain America_ showed-- No, fuck you. _I’m_ handling it. The Asset’s fine, dumb fuckin’ thing hasn’t even blinked. I’m telling you, _do not_ call it off.”

The crowd begins to move into the courtroom below, and Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off of Steve and his friends. He tracks their movements, his mind racing. He has to get Steve’s attention -- something forgivable enough that HYDRA won’t see it as intentional, something that will allow Peter to survive and maybe, _maybe_ free them.

Clanton straightens up, a tense bite to his posture. “C’mon,” he grunts at Bucky.

The Avengers stand at guard for the government official, watching over him as he drones on about some type of Accord. Even with his limited context of the situation, Bucky can tell this mission’s headed off the rails. The risk is too great, and the Avengers’ presence should be evidence enough that HYDRA’s attendance has not gone unnoticed.

A smarter handler would’ve clocked the risk and aborted the plan, or at least called for a regroup when they could get the mark on his own - preferably after the Avengers were already on their way back to their superhero base. A smarter mission coordinator would’ve put Clanton in his place. But as luck would have it, neither of those things happens.

Clanton’s patience runs thin quickly. He drags them both to a rooftop across the street, surveying the secretive back exit they broke in through. The world council event doesn’t conclude until hours later -- just unending, meditative focus for the Winter Soldier, but _hell_ for someone like Clanton, who climbed the ranks too quickly, not enough field experience to know the real pain of a months-long stakeout.

When the event finally reaches its torturous end, the Avengers escort the mark outside, Steve sticking to him like a bodyguard, to Clanton’s open dismay. Bucky watches Steve and Widow bracket the man as an attendant leaves to pull the car around; watches Steve chuckle good-naturedly at some joke the man makes, even as his clear blue eyes scan their surroundings for any hint of a threat.

But neither his gaze nor Widow’s lands on them. Their hiding spot is too narrow and too obvious for this kind of assassination, really, but it’s the perfect position for recon. As long as they don’t do anything to give their location away, they’d go unnoticed for as long as they needed.

Bucky knows what he needs to do long before Clanton gives him an excuse to do it.

The man only grows more agitated by the second. “We’re losing it,” he snarls at Bucky, in a tone that clearly says he isn’t expecting an answer. His voice is deep and ridged with frustration as he cups his earpiece to the side of his head and resumes his argument with the mission coordinator, and that’s all the opportunity Bucky needs.

If Clanton wants his mission success stamp, he’ll need to call a move soon. Not above a little bit of gentle encouragement, Bucky nocks the sniper over his shoulder and screws in his scope.

“...Look, we’ve got sights on him out back. This is the closest thing to a clear shot-- Hey,” Clanton snaps distractedly as Bucky lowers his cheek against the cool, smooth curve of his rifle. “What’re you doin’?”

Bucky doesn’t look up at his ‘handler’. “ _My job_ ,” he responds flatly in Russian. He takes the shot.

The mark is dead before he hits the ground - a clean spray of blood arcs through the air, but Bucky isn’t watching his mark. He stares, dogged and desperate as Steve rushes to catch the man’s corpse, the bird man jumps into action delegating, and-- _bingo_. 

Widow’s eyes lock onto his, sharp green, promising he won’t get away this time.

But Bucky has his boy to return to.

He’s collapsing his scope and hefting his rifle over his shoulder as he walks, picking up the pace when he hears the quick running of Widow, already in pursuit from ten stories below. They have perhaps three minutes.

Clanton takes the lead as they make their way back to the van, foolishly boasting into his comm that the mission has been a success and they’re ready for extraction. Bucky regulates his breathing, tuning out the furious, threatening tone of the mission coordinator berating them for the mess they just caused, tuning out Clanton’s snarky reply as he brags, haughty and naive, that he got the mission done, that even the Avengers weren’t enough to stop him.

“You should be thanking me,” Clanton smugly says into his comm, remarkably unaware. “Not only is the mark dead, but the Asset didn’t even lose his gourd when he saw his old buddy _Steve._ Which is more than that cocksucker Rumlow can say.”

Bucky stares straight ahead as the van doors shut, letting everything else fade out. He watches closely for Steve--for any of the Avengers--catching the odd glimpse of their pursuit, before their coordinator implements their extraction, and Bucky finally allows himself to slip into the Soldier’s hands.

He catches one last, brief glance of the light gleaming off Steve’s shield before he allows himself to be pulled under.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warnings this chapter:** Noncon/rape, graphic depictions of death/violence

The next time Bucky regains consciousness, all of his senses are immediately blaring, warning him of impending danger and putting him on high-alert. He’s following behind Clanton as they walk down the narrow corridor leading to the briefing room, and it takes Bucky a second to figure out exactly why he was dragged out of the Soldier’s mindset, and by what.

They’re flanked on all sides by men he vaguely recognizes from STRIKE team Alpha. Rumlow’s men. Every one of them is heavily armed with their weapons at the ready like they’re transporting a couple of prisoners, not their allies. Clanton’s wide face is pinched in a sour look, Bucky can tell just by the taut clench of his jaw, the way his hands are balled into white-knuckled fists. He can hear the crackle and buzz of several people conversing over everyone else’s ear-comms-- his and Clanton’s were apparently removed, at some point-- and the voices do not sound happy. There’s a thick, impenetrable aura of deadly rage hanging over the entire base, and cold dread sinks in Bucky’s stomach like a block of ice.

He only gets to briefly wonder where Rumlow is when they’re marched into the briefing room, and all of Bucky’s anxiety and fear melts away at the sight of Peter, alive, kneeling at Rumlow’s feet, the side of his face pressed against Rumlow’s thigh as the man plays with his hair. Rumlow regards them coolly, lounging back in his chair with his legs spread wide, and Bucky doesn’t miss the way his eyes bore into Clanton with the kind of piercing intensity that makes Bucky’s knees wobble.

The men escorting them take a step back and stand guard at the door like they’re expecting him and Clanton to book it. He can see Clanton steadily growing more and more frustrated with Rumlow’s very intentional silence, but he doesn’t speak or react in any way the Soldier wouldn’t. He wants to hide behind that mask for as long as he can. He even keeps his gaze lowered, pretending to obediently stare at the floor when really, he’s staring at the hem of the much-too-large t-shirt Peter’s wearing, the way it falls down to his thighs and covers him like a dress. _That’s mine,_ he realizes, numbly, an odd sense of comfort falling over him. _That’s the one Ben gave me._

At long last, Rumlow clears his throat, lifting a leg and loosely crossing it atop the other, his ankle resting on his knee like he’s trying to keep his legs as open as he can. His gaze flickers to Bucky before landing mercilessly on Clanton. “So,” he says, flippant, like he isn’t interrogating them, “I hear De Luca’s dead.”

“That’s right,” Clanton grunts. Even now, he’s stupid enough to be proud of it. “Whole team went bitch as soon as those costumed freaks showed up, but the Asset an’ me carried out the mission anyway.”

Rumlow’s face is expressionless, save for the absolutely _venomous_ glint in his dark eyes. “Could that possibly be because everyone _else_ was trying to avoid those ‘costumed freaks’ learning of our involvement in this assassination and they wanted to keep them off our scent?”

Clanton bristles, indignant. “Well-- ”

“You thought of that though, didn’t you? And you knew you’d be able to take out the target without drawing the Avengers’ attention. That’s why you proceeded with the mission, despite being _ordered not to,_ isn’t that right?”

“I -- ”

“After all, surely not even someone as stupid as _you_ is dumb enough to let the Asset take a shot that risky in front of _Captain fucking America_ without having some assurances in place, hm?”

Growling like a feral, cornered dog, Clanton bares his teeth and snaps, “Cut the _shit,_ Rumlow. We weren’t followed. We lost them before we even got extracted. And that perfumed little puppet is dead. The mission was a success. So make your goddamn point already so I can hit the showers.”

“I’d like nothing _more,_ ” Rumlow hisses. Despite still gazing downward, Bucky knows the man’s hand tightens painfully in Peter’s hair because the boy’s knees draw up in a wince. He barely stops himself from reaching for him in an attempt to comfort his son. “But until you can tell me how the _fuck_ you shit the bed this hard, I can’t dismiss you to go hose it off.”

One of the guards behind them snickers, and for a moment, Bucky prepares himself to restrain Clanton when it looks like he’s about to lunge for Rumlow.

Through clenched teeth, Clanton snarls and says, “We had a clear shot of the target,” enunciating every word, like it’s taking every bit of his self-control not to shout, “the Asset saw a chance to complete the mission, I knew we’d easily be gone by the time those clowns realized what happened, so he pulled the trigger. And _I was right._ ”

Bucky feels like someone just dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt when Rumlow slowly turns his gaze to him. There’s no anger, no indication of what his handler is thinking, just cold, critical calculation. Bucky resolutely keeps his head down, even as he feels his skin prickle under the crushing, oppressive weight of Rumlow’s suspicious gaze.

“ _The Asset ‘saw a chance,'_ huh?”

“That’s right.”

Rumlow stays silent for a long, tense moment, then nods at the team guarding the door and says, “You guys are dismissed.”

Clanton glares as the team leaves and stupidly demands, “And what about m-- ”

“ _You,_ ” Rumlow grits out, his calm mask slipping now that the four of them are alone, “are the dumbest piece of shit I’ve ever met in my life.”

“You fucking-- ”

“You got _played,_ dipshit. The Asset didn’t _see a chance._ _Bucky Barnes_ saw a chance.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t. Move. Don’t move don’t move don’t --_

“Didn’t you, _Bucky?”_

Against his will, like it’s muscle memory, Bucky lifts his head at the sound of his name and has a split-second to take in the terrified expression on Peter’s face before he’s suddenly drowning under the weight of Rumlow’s knowing stare. _No. God, no, please. Shit. Shit shit shit--_

Clanton turns back and looks at him, then, overconfident to a fault, glares back at Rumlow and says, “You don’t know shit, you weren’t there. The Asset-- ”

“Is a mindless killing machine, and still smarter than you will ever be,” Rumlow says as he gets to his feet, completely unfazed by the swell of anger Clanton’s whole body thickens with. “Let’s go for a walk.” He marches forward, past Clanton, and takes Bucky by the neck like a misbehaving dog. “Follow me. And bring the boy.”

Peter cries out as Clanton wrenches him off the floor, and dread trickles cold and paralytic down Bucky’s spine.

Rumlow leads them - Bucky shoved in front of him and Clanton following behind, Peter stumbling after his long strides - through the winding hallways of the base and into an exit tunnel, and then they’re spilling out into the dark, freezing night.

The base is surrounded by dense, wild forest, but the entire world is eerily silent around them. Peter meets his gaze, wide-eyed and confused, but Rumlow keeps marching them through the woods, unnervingly quiet for once.

They walk for what feels like ages. Rumlow steers Bucky ahead of him through the dense trees, confident in his path despite the dark and ignoring Clanton’s grunts of frustration behind them as he swats low tree branches out of his eyes. When Rumlow at last yanks him to a stop, Bucky stares at the clearing in front of them.

Massive trees yawn overhead, cold moonlight barely filtering through the heavy branches to illuminate the scene before them. A rusted shovel rests against one of the thick trees, its handle caked in dirt and grime, and he sees discarded casings littered among the layer of dead leaves across the forest grounds.

Rumlow squeezes Bucky by the shoulder and shoves him forward, tossing him a shovel that he catches without thinking.

“What are you doing?” Clanton grunts in confusion, taking a step back from them and crushing Peter underneath a beefy arm. The boy lets out a strangled noise as Clanton’s forearm folds tight and threatening over his throat.

“Calm down, Lieutenant,” Rumlow laughs, though his eyes are cold and unamused. He leans into Bucky and hisses, his breath hot on the nape of his neck, “Start digging, Soldier.”

“Please,” Bucky tries, his voice hoarse and pathetic in his own ears. He’s seen this one play out too many times - it’s a favorite of Rumlow’s. “I swear, I wasn’t -- ”

“You’ve gotten second chances,” Rumlow says, like he’s patiently reminding him. “You’ve had third chances, and fourth chances. Hell, I’ve given you _fifth_ chances. Six is my limit, Soldier. Six is roulette. _Start. Digging._ ”

Anger and desperate fear seize Bucky by the throat. His metal hand squeezes the handle of the shovel until it caves under the pressure, but he can’t stop himself. “No, _no,_ not this, Rumlow, I won’t - ”

“Clanton,” Rumlow interrupts, smoothly, making Bucky’s mouth snap shut on instinct. “If the Asset doesn’t start digging in the next five seconds, shoot the boy.”

Peter whimpers, and Bucky only allows himself half a second to see the wide, wicked grin spread over Clanton’s face before he turns and sticks the blade of the shovel into the dirt, his eyes dampening with tears.

“Daddy,” Peter sobs, fearful and confused. Bucky grits his teeth together as he continues digging, four straight edges, a deep rectangle between them. He’s acutely aware of how close Rumlow is standing behind him, of the way he’s watching Bucky’s every move like a hawk, of Peter’s terrified whimpers and cries as Clanton manhandles him to the ground.

“Needy little bitch,” the man spits, his voice deepening to an even lower, more guttural pitch. “We might as well get one last use out of you, huh?”

Peter whines, Clanton’s large hands gripping him painfully by the hair and yanking him between his spread legs. “Open your mouth. There, that’s it. Remind your _Daddy_ what a dirty little cocksucker you are before he has to say goodbye.”

Peter’s cries are muffled as the man rocks his hips, burying his cock down to the hilt inside his mouth. Peter doesn’t even gag - it must not be long enough for that - but the way even his whimpers of discomfort are suppressed belies just how full his mouth must be. Clanton’s loud, heavy moans echo through the dark forest, accompanied by the obscene, wet slaps of his hips against Peter’s face as he fucks the boy’s mouth.

“Yeah, you like that, you slut?” the man taunts, out of breath. “You like sucking my fat dick? Look at you, I haven’t showered in days and you fucking _love_ it. Can’t get enough of the taste of my filthy cock. Greedy little bitch. It’s a shame your dumbass _Daddy_ had to go and get you killed. I could’ve got used to this…”

Bucky’s tears run down his cheeks and soak the front of his neck, even the collar of his shirt, but he keeps digging. He doesn’t try and block the sound of his son getting assaulted out, despite how badly he wants to. Somehow, it feels like the very least he owes him. But all he wants to do is close his eyes and imagine driving the cutting edge of the shovel’s blade into the still-healing wound in Clanton’s neck.

A long, shuddering moan fills the clearing as Clanton finishes. Peter retches around the man’s sputtering dick as he’s pinned down on it, earning a laugh from Clanton that makes the murderous rage flare up in Bucky, hot and explosive like a volcano. Rumlow hasn’t said a word behind him, but he can still feel the man’s gaze on him, heated and ever-present as Bucky continues digging.

Bucky doesn’t allow himself to slow down as he finishes making the grave. He continues shoveling, a steady, robotic pace, until the grave is dug, as neat and uniform as any soldier’s. Five feet by two feet. Cramped for the average man - Peter would fit in it easily, he thinks with an awful twist in his stomach. When he’s done, Bucky turns and climbs out of the hole, sets the shovel down where it was previously resting against a nearby tree and stands beside his work, his head obediently lowered and his mind racing.

_I’ll go for Rumlow first,_ he thinks, his whole body shaking with the dregs of adrenaline. _Clanton’s slower. Dumber. He’ll be caught off guard, and Rumlow has the remote for Pete’s collar, I gotta kill him first. Clanton’s sloppy, I can grab the muzzle of his gun with my left hand, he won’t even see it coming--_

Like he can read his thoughts, Rumlow’s cold, vicious voice pulls Bucky from his planning and cuts him like a knife. “Clanton. Give me your gun.”

Bucky looks up sharply, watches in complete horror as Rumlow takes Clanton’s gun and cocks it. Clanton hauls Peter onto shaking legs and holds him out to the side, bracing him, and Rumlow raises the gun in their direction.

His plan crashing around him, Bucky sinks to his knees, all notions of pride replaced with desperation. “No, please, _please,_ please don’t, not this, not my son - please, I’m begging you, not this, _not this_ \--!”

Rumlow holds his gaze, braces his finger on the trigger. He doesn’t look away from Bucky’s eyes as he asks, “Any last words?”

“No, _no no--_ I _swore_ I’d do anything _\- !”_

“Dad,” Peter cries, loud and frightened, so heartbreakingly childlike. “ _Daddy._ ”

Clanton sneers like the sound of their begging offends him. “Pathetic,” he spits, remorseless.

The corner of Rumlow’s mouth quirks up in the barest hint of a smirk. Bucky watches, paralyzed as the man turns his gaze away, and he slowly shifts the angle of the gun.

“Yeah,” he agrees, giving a little shrug. “But so was everything else about you.”

And then he pulls the trigger.

Peter _screams_ as he’s splattered in blood and soft brain matter. Bucky lurches forward, but Rumlow backhands him so hard he careens to the ground in a heap. Clanton’s body makes a loud, wet _splat_ as it tips into the mud, fragments of his skull littering the ground in shards.

Peter is crumpled on the forest floor, shaking and retching, soaked from the spray of blood that covered him when Rumlow hit his mark. Bucky drags himself to his knees, numb to his own trembling pain, feeling like every drop of blood has been drained out of his body, leaving him as empty as Clanton’s shattered head.

He scarcely catches the odd look Rumlow gives him before the man makes his way over to Peter’s shivering form. He grabs one of Clanton’s muddy pants legs with one hand and the back of Peter’s shirt with the other, then drags them both back over to the grave Bucky dug. He carelessly throws Clanton’s massive body into the hole like he weighs nothing, while steadying Peter on his feet with a firm grip on the back of his neck. Bucky stares up at them from where he’s still kneeling in the mud, feeling too drained to move so much as a muscle.

Whimpering, Peter cautiously leans into Rumlow’s side, his legs shaking so hard he has trouble staying upright. Bucky yearns to reach for him. He wants to take him into his arms and hold him until the trembling stops. But Rumlow is still staring him down with that odd look, that familiar, dangerous glint in his eyes, so Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Rumlow says coldly, “Who saw you.”

Soft dirt sifts through his fingers as Bucky curls his hand into a fist on the ground. He knows Rumlow isn’t playing around now. The game is over. And if he lies, it’ll be Peter who pays for it.

Bucky swallows the painful lump in his throat and says, “Black Widow.”

Rumlow regards him silently, his gaze piercing into Bucky’s, and then finally his shoulders relax the barest amount and he asks, “No one else?” as his fingers tighten around the back of Peter’s neck like a collar.

Desperate, Bucky shakes his head, his skin prickling with a wave of debilitating numbness. “No one else. Only her. He-- he didn’t see. No one else saw.”

Rumlow sighs, like he’s a disappointed master, taking in the mess his dog’s made. He shakes his head resignedly. “He’ll be looking for you now. You know this.”

It’s not a question. Bucky works past the tightness in his throat and nods. “Yes.”

“And for all the trouble you’ve caused me, I’m gonna make you kill him.”

Bucky feels his breath rattling in his lungs. Could he beat out the Soldier, deployed on a mission to kill his child? Or would it be like all the rest - strapped in one moment, then waking up days later getting the blood and viscera hosed off of him in the basement?

Rumlow catches the raw panic in his eyes and chuckles, a harsh, wounded sound. “See, that’s the _one_ thing we never could’a guessed. Of all the weaknesses the _Winter Soldier_ could have -- a _kid_?” He accentuates his point shaking Peter back and forth by the neck. Peter isn’t even resisting. His head lolls slack and his eyes meet Bucky’s, shining wet and dark in the cool moonlight, one last plea.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky croaks out, meeting Peter’s eyes. His throat aches. He wishes he could hold Peter in his arms again.

Rumlow bends down over him, cruel and pitying as he cups his cheek in a warm palm. “It’s okay, Soldier.” He smiles. “I forgive you.” Rumlow stands and he slams the butt of his pistol down with a sickening _crack_ over Peter’s head.

The boy stares up at Rumlow in shock and _betrayed_ \-- despite everything that’s happened -- as fresh dark blood oozes in a too-quick stream from his hairline down into his face. Rumlow swings his fist back the other direction; this time the leaden metal barrel of his gun collides with Peter’s temple, and the boy topples over into the open grave.

Bucky lunges forward, clawing for his son’s limp body. He can hear himself breathing harsh with terror as he grabs at Peter’s small shoulders, trying to drag him out. Black soil sprays over them as Rumlow kicks the upturned dirt into the grave, over Clanton, over Peter and Bucky. “You’re lucky I like you so much.” Rumlow kicks another clump of wet soil over them. A wriggling earthworm lands on Peter’s slack face, painted in blood. He looks so young, almost peaceful with his eyes closed. Bucky distractedly swipes the earthworm off and curls his left arm under Peter’s neck, lifting him off of Clanton’s corpse.

The shovel lands in the dirt beside them, and Bucky doesn’t dare lift his head or turn to look at Rumlow. “Clean this up, Soldier. Then report directly to me at base.” Bucky can’t feel or hear Rumlow’s breathing or his movement, but he feels with a certain clarity that Rumlow is standing behind him, less than inches away, peering omniscient over his shoulder. _Six is roulette_. How many more times is Bucky willing to spin the chamber on his son’s life?

Bucky stays kneeling in the dirt, his boy’s lifeless body cradled in his arms. He stays there until the moon’s changed position in the sky, unwilling to turn around, terrified he might turn around and find Rumlow behind them, ready to deal the final blow. He stays hunched over Peter’s body, staring at his son through watery eyes until he’s sure he isn’t imagining the shallow rise and fall of his thin chest. Bucky doesn’t know how long he stays there, kneeling in a dead man’s grave, but it must be hours. He doesn’t move until a fox slinks out of its den and sniffs curiously around the shallow grave, only darting away with a startled yip when Bucky lifts his head.

They’re alone.

His limbs stiff and swollen, he stumbles to his feet, careful not to jostle Peter in his arms. The bleeding’s stopped by now, caked dark and dry along his scalp, and Bucky can already see some of the bruises around Peter’s throat beginning to fade away. His breathing is labored and thin, but he’s alive. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut against the swell of gratitude that washes over him.

The forest lies ahead of them, a thick blue darkness swarming through the trees that promises either freedom or certain death. _Six is roulette_. Bucky exhales a shuddering sigh. He clutches Peter’s small body tight to his chest, and he turns around, following the path back to base. In the shallow grave, an earthworm flops listlessly over Clanton’s impassive face.


End file.
